


Kelev Ra

by Moku



Series: Chayey Kelev [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, BAMF Stiles (I guess?), Canonical Character Death, Derek's not the only failure here, Developing Relationship, F/M, Gen, Hunter Stiles Stilinski, I'm serious guys, Kind of a 'What if' story, M for violence, M/M, Past Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, Psychological Trauma, Scott actually answeres the phone, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, This is not as angsty as it may sound, Unfortunately when he shouldn't, When I say slow build I mean slow build, individual chapter warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-01-13 09:41:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 114,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1221529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moku/pseuds/Moku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Considering he was a sixteen year old hunter, who basically relied on folklore and myths for research ‘cause his granddad was a lying selfish bag of douche who’d rather get him killed than share their family bestiary with him, Stiles Stilinski’s life was surprisingly uneventful. Sure, there was the occasional preternatural stuff he had to deal with. And maybe some temporary lapses into insanity. But apart from that, life was a piece of double fudge chocolate cake.</p><p>Until Peter Hale woke from a six year long slumber like Sleeping Beauty and decided upon awakening to kill his niece. </p><p>Killing a newborn Alpha wasn’t really on Stiles’ to-do-list for that night but hey, who was he to argue with fate? Turned out Peter wasn’t even that much of a challenge anyway. Problem solved. All was fine with the world.</p><p>Not. </p><p>Enter Derek Hale, who suddenly started to lurk on every corner, snooping around to gather information on the unknown hunter who had supposedly killed his sister and uncle. And as if that wasn’t bad enough there was a creepy cheap-ass imitation of a Silent Hill nurse out to kill him. And a skulking shadow around his house he was confident was Derek stalking him</p><p>Well fuck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yune02](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yune02/gifts).



> I'll add other tags as the story progresses but right now that's about it. 
> 
> Thanks to my beta **ToriTC198**!
> 
> Not even going to pretend titel was not inspired by Lucky # Slevin. Because it totally was.

 

Running through the woods in the middle of the night in search of a corpse?

Yeah, not the brightest idea he ever had.

Seriously, _why_ had he ever thought that this would be a great idea to begin with? Seeing as there were mountain lions on the loose, killing innocent humans and such…

Not asking his best friend to accompany him was probably the best decision he had made along the way. Stiles wasn’t even sure how he got to the preserve. One moment he was spying on the police radio, the next he found himself in the woods, wondering why he hadn’t left his bag in his car because it was freaking heavy. There was a good chance that something out there was about to kill him. He should have written a memo for his father, to remember to eat vegetables every once in a while, that he shouldn’t get back to the bottle and great, now Stiles’ guilty conscience was coming into play.

However, the thing with the animal attacks and the corpse?

Not normal.

He could smell that a mile away.

Not the corpse, though. Unfortunately. Because if he could smell it he would have found it already instead of stumbling through the woods, almost getting run over by a herd of deer.

Stiles had spent his childhood in these woods and there were a few things he could still remember. Things such as: if a deer was actually prepared to trample you, you probably better make a quick getaway. Deer, same as other reticent animals, tend to avoid you. There was only one reason they would run you over in a panicked state:

Life-threatening danger.

And, as if on cue, there was the corpse.

Part of it, at least.

Which, honestly, wasn’t as awesome as he had pictured. The girl’s eyes were opened wide in fear, her hair a tangle of bloody and dirty wisps and yeah, he sure as hell was not going to let his eyes roam further down where he knew she was missing the other half. But he looked at her face again, slowly inching forward, his hand reaching out to her.

And then there was a howl and a growl.

And, as he turned around in a fluid movement he saw the red eyes.

Just perfect.

A smirk crept on his lips, as he withdrew the wooden gun from his kangaroo pocket, stabilizing it with both hands. The sound of the bullet echoed in the misty air along with the yelp that escaped the animal. Without hesitation, Stiles' left hand reached for a small vial in his pocket and threw it at the head of the animal, ash encircling the writhing beast. For a second, he could only stare at the thing, before he cocked one eyebrow in complacence and his lips widened in a satisfied smirk. “So, we’ve got ourselves an Alpha?” The boy pushed himself up, ignoring the pained growls of the werewolf as he closed in on the circle of mountain ash. “You’re the one running around killing people?”

The bullet had hit the werewolf in the shoulder, not close enough to the heart to kill it instantly, but it wasn’t his intention to kill fast.

He preferred slow and painful.

“Refusing to shift back? Doesn’t matter to me, really. For your information, I’ve got Hecatolite and I know how to use it,” he sort of joked, but didn’t really. “And that wolfsbane? Aconitum cammarum. It’s a hybrid. Rather potent, don’t you think?”

Stiles took a step back, when the werewolf flung itself at the invisible barrier, bouncing back and stumbling to the ground. The boy raised his eyebrows, then put his gun away. “Right,” was all he had to say to such stupidity, before he curiously watched the red eyes flaring at him.

“I get the attacking humans part, you know, pack building? But killing animals? And now a human, too? You’re an Alpha. You should bite them, not kill ‘em. Unless you’re kinda suicidal in which case you could have just asked someone to kill you. There’d be ample people who’d offer to off you. Either to become Alphas themselves or to get rid of another plague bearer.” Stiles furrowed his brow, locking his eyes on the werewolf, who had finally stopped struggling, heavily panting on the ground, its eyes blazing with anger, trained on the brunette boy. “But you don’t want to die.” He realized as he knelt down in front of the barrier to study the werewolf further, taking in the almost completely shifted form.

He had never seen an Alpha shift but he had heard about it. According to his information it depended on several factors, the power of an Alpha, skills, partly inheritance, where they drew their anchoring feelings from and disgustingly romanticized stuff like that.

“Why did you kill them?” He turned his head back to the girl, her dead eyes staring right at him. “Why did you kill _her_?” He thought she was oddly familiar. A few years older. Maybe he had seen her in town somewhere? “Why is she severed in half unlike the other victims?”

There was another growl, and then a loud bang when the werewolf threw itself _again_ against the barrier. As if he would have been so stupid as to remove the circle. The boy started to doubt the wolf’s intelligence. An Alpha by appearance, but a feral Omega by nature? An Alpha without a pack maybe?

“Unless she isn’t just another victim.”

The brunette boy ignored the uproar behind him as he now moved closer to the girl again. He wasn’t really bothered about the werewolf. Stiles had been trained since he was young, so there wasn’t much that thing could do to harm him and there weren’t many possible outcomes from this meeting: either the werewolf was going to kill himself because he wouldn’t keep still and therefore let the wolfsbane poison his heart sooner than later; or the hunter would kill him with another bullet to the head or heart. Or maybe he could let him go, which was actually an option he was contemplating. Maybe the werewolf would lead him back to his pack. If there was one. He was pretty sure he would have noticed a werewolf pack living in Beacon Hills. And the only one he had learned about had been smoked out years ago. Like literally. Gone in a big fire.

So this was all very mysterious.

The only werewolves he had ever actively hunted were a few stray Omegas, not counting that one Alpha incident, and he had dealt with them. Not exactly according to code but they were mostly dead and he was alive so everything was at least according to his questionable profession.

Stiles narrowed his eyes, lifting some of the hair out of the dead girl's face. More a woman than a girl, though. He leaned in closer to take her features in, trying to imagine what she would have looked like in the sunlight, without her eyes wide open in horror, mud on her face, skin ashen and lips bloodless, when the werewolf suddenly gave another guttural cry.

“Will you shut up already?” Stiles shouted, as the roaring grew louder, then turned around to the beast, just in time to see something get thrown at him. He barely avoided the object, before something else was flung at him. Stiles picked himself up, stumbling in a half crouch behind the nearest tree to avoid further assault.

“This won’t help,” he warned. “You’re just going to get the poison faster to your heart. You hear me?” Probably not, if the constant snarling was any indication. “You want to knock me unconscious? That wouldn’t make the circle go away, just so you know.” Stiles rolled his eyes when a pained groan escaped the werewolf and then became acutely aware of how badly hidden his body was when something hit him in the shoulder. He shifted his position further behind the tree.

Damn that had _hurt_.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Was he just stupid? Desperate? Afraid?

Or was he trying to distract him?

Stiles slid down the tree, a damp wetness seeping through his clothes where he was struck, making the fabric stick to his skin. Blood? Was he trying to make the smell of blood stick to the tree and the proximity? Was he trying to mark something with Stiles’ blood? Maybe as some kind of evidence on a crime scene?

Had he been calling his pack?

Was there even a pack?

Wasn’t there _anyone_ who could have just called him and told him that there was going to be a crazy _Alpha_ in his woods?

No.

No, of course not.

Because that would have made things _easy_.

The werewolf was slowly quieting down, but when Stiles tried to peek from around the tree he had a handful of mud in his face, which… gross… There was blood mingled in the dirt. Probably the werewolf’s.

“You could shift back, you know.” He said, wiping the dirt off his face. “To, dunno, talk to me? Any last word’s or shit like that? Dunno if monsters like you have anything to say before they die. Might make me want to heal your wound, though. Maybe it wasn’t you who killed them. Maybe it was her,” his hand gestured vaguely in the direction of the woman. “She was a werewolf, right? Cut in half to kill her. Did you do it?”

“No.”

Stiles straightened when he suddenly heard the faint voice. He tried again to peek around the tree and this time he was spared from any desperate sneak attacks. He raised his eyebrows in wonder taking in the kneeling man in the circle, one hand tightly gripping his shoulder, chest heaving and lowering from heavy, painful breaths.

“You’re lying,” he stated and turned back around, his head leaning against the trunk. “I might not be able to listen to your heartbeat but you could, I don’t know, at least _try_ to sound sincere.”

“I’m not lying,” the man whimpered. “She is… she was family. I wouldn’t kill family.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. In his opinion, they were all family, the whole bunch of supernatural crap that kept on creeping in on his life like black smoke. “I would, if family turned out to be killing monsters.”

There was a rough laugh that turned into a cough. “Would you kill your parents then?”

“My parents? Well… wouldn’t that be kinda moot?” He answered with a frown, then furrowed his brow. There was something. A Noise. Rustling of leaves. Animals wouldn’t dare come too close, they would be smart enough to stay away.

“Who are you, boy?”

“Quiet,” the brunette ordered, eyes scanning the woods but it was too dark to see very far.

“There are no hunters left in this area. Who trained you?”

“Shut up,” he whispered again, but voice firm. So the Alpha had indeed been calling someone. If they were human, they were at the same disadvantage. If they were werewolves, then he was a little bit out of luck. If they were human, they could open the circle. If they were werewolves they would kill Stiles. Either way, he was pretty much screwed if there were more than two of them out there.

“I’m not really sorry to tell you this, but I guess you have to die,” the boy muttered in conclusion, aware that the man would pick up on his words and he did, a snarl erupting from the center and then a growl and a groan and damn, he was making a ruckus _again_. But in-between the desperate cries he could now hear the barking of dogs and fuck, that would be the search party. They were probably lured by the growling, expecting to find the man-hunting mountain lion. But he couldn’t see their flashlights or silhouettes, so maybe they weren’t close enough?

Stiles turned his head to the torso of the dead woman, where he had dropped his bag, then looked at the man, slumped over on his knees. His eyes were flickering from bright, glowing red to darkness, terrified noises escaping his lips.

 _Well, here goes nothing,_ he thought, pushed himself off the trunk for momentum, sprinting to his bag, picking it up and resting behind the next tree again. He was glad that he didn’t drop his bag on the way. He could vividly picture it as something he would do. Because Stiles was lazy as fuck and he really didn’t want to stick a post-it on it saying ‘Keep with you at all times’ to remind himself that it was indeed in someway _crucial_ for his survival.

Without a second thought, Stiles dug through his bag, fishing for a wooden box where he kept his bullets and the satchel with the black powder. “Nothing personal there buddy. It’s just you are a werewolf, and I kinda hunt them And, well, you _did_ kind of attack me.” He pushed himself up, listening for the raging of the werewolf and the barking of the dogs. There was only one more bullet in his gun. The boy wasn’t really that good at loading it and only used it if he really had to. Then again, it wasn’t like he had any other deadly weapon on him. He gave a half shrug. Not like the werewolf could go anywhere, anyway. “It’s just that there are not that many people I care about – two to be precise – and you kinda endanger them,” he kept on babbling as he put the gunpowder in the barrel, followed by the bullet and then pressed it down with the ramrod.

‘Not too much. Leave space for a little bit of extra oxygen’, a voice whispered in his head. ‘And don't forget your glasses.’ He rolled his eyes at his own subconsciousness. “So I hope you won’t hold it against me,” he darted out of his hideout in a quick movement, narrowing the eyes as he followed along the barrel between the visor. The werewolf had partly transformed back, his silhouette unstable, glimmering like a nightmare illusion. “When I do _this _.” And with the last word he shot two times, aiming for the heart.__

He waited as long as he could, collecting the mountain ash, the stench of rapidly decaying flesh in his nose and the desperate, high-pitched growl still lingering in the back of his mind as he turned around and fled the scene.

And seriously, _what_ had he been thinking, going into the woods alone?

Probably nothing, definitely nothing. _Nothing at all_. He tripped a couple of times, wildly looking around for something or anything. He wasn’t sure if there was something out there besides the search party but his eyes remained more on the ground than on lookout to avoid tripping _again._ And then he suddenly bumped into something warm and soft. He looked up with wide eyes, and saw a woman, staring at him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he blurted out, the first thing he could come up with. Neither should he, for that matter. “Leave. Get away from here,” Stiles continued, pushing at her shoulder as firmly and gently as he could.

The woman just narrowed her eyes as she looked him up and down and then Stiles noticed the nurse outfit she was wearing underneath her slightly open cloak and if _that_ wasn’t Silent Hill Stiles didn’t know what was.

“You know what, just stay here. Or not. I don’t care,” he rambled, sidestepping her with more suspicion than she probably deserved, but whatever. He was just about to make a run for it, when he hesitated in his steps for a second, something catching his attention out of the corner of his eyes.

“Wait a minute—” he started, torso slowly turning around and no, no, not waiting a minute, because there _really_ was a freaking axe in her hand. An axe she was suddenly lifting in the air as she grabbed his hood and okay, _that_ was definitely Silent Hill. She was choking him, and Stiles panicked, and all he could see was the flicker of mirrored moonlight out of the corner of his eyes.

“Bitch,” he growled, kicking his leg back and into her stomach, as he fell forward, tearing his hoody and she tripped back, the axe falling to the ground with a heavy thud.

Stiles stared at it wide eyed, then at the woman, one hand to her abdomen as she lifted herself up. The boy didn’t wait for her, he bent down to get the axe and then just turned around and took off, before she could, well, he didn’t know what she wanted to do but anyone swinging an axe at someone was probably not up to any good in the middle of the fucking woods.

Stiles hated them.

And where the hell was his _jeep_ anyway?

He continued to sprint through the woods, never looking back or checking whether the crazy wench was anywhere close. He had learned from quite a few Horror movies that looking back only slowed one down and he was so not taking that chance until he found his car, started the engine and was out of this shitty hellhole.

It took him another couple of minutes, his legs were starting to ache, his lungs burned under the exertion but at least he didn’t trip again. He was trying to listen for other footsteps besides his own, for anything else, when he suddenly stood face to face with her beauty.

“Oh my God, I love you so much,” he panted and slowly came to a stop next to his jeep, daring to look back for the first time since he had fled from that nurse. There was nothing there, but he wasn’t going to wait, actually he expected her to jump out from behind one of the trees. With shaking fingers he searched his pockets for the car keys, finding them in his back pocket and then fumbled for the keyhole, dropping his keys a few times and swearing profusely.

When he finally opened the door, he threw the axe on the passenger seat and jumped behind the steering wheel. The lights didn’t reveal any creepy nurse behind or in front of him and if they had he would have totally run her over. He went into reverse with more force than was probably necessary and hit the gas.

As soon as he was on the road, minutes away from the preserve and saw the lights of the town his heart slowly calmed down.

That was…

“Awesome,” he breathed as a smirk tucked on his lips. Disturbing. But awesome nonetheless. Even though he hoped he had just dreamt that nurse stuff. Because _that_ was really creepy. But all in all, he was awesome. This was awesome. Slightly. For the most part at least.

He parked the car in the driveway and opened the front door. His dad wasn’t home yet, probably out in the woods with the search party. Stiles picked up his phone and called him, to make sure he was alright and fine, but he could only reach the voice mail.

“Go figure,” Stiles growled, rolling his eyes as he left his phone on the kitchen table, shouldering his backpack and… right, that was probably when the adrenaline went off because there was something really, really hurting him.

He furrowed his brow, stripped out of his hoodie, discarding it on the floor and went to the bathroom. He craned his neck in front of the mirror to see the wound and what the fuck was that anyway? Was there actually something in there? His hand searched through the cabinets, looking for forceps he knew they had somewhere. When he eventually found them between syringes and clean needles he sat down on the toilet lid, using another mirror to look at the one over the sink.

Seriously, couldn’t the wound be somewhere where he didn’t need to be able to perform some kind of yoga to reach it?

He dug with the tips into the open flesh a few times, always missing the strange object, wincing in pain whenever he was forced to try again. It felt like an eternity until he had finally removed the thing, cleaning it under a stream of water in the sink before he held it close to his face.

It sure as hell wasn’t a bullet, neither was it any kind of wood or a stone.

He turned it around in-between the forceps, frowning at the object as if it would give him any answers if he just stared long enough at it, taking it in from different angles, before he just put it down. The longer he looked at it, the more it appeared to be a piece of a bone. Which was ridiculous. Anyway, he should probably take care of the wound.  _Priorities, Stiles_ , he reminded himself.  Would a simple band aid be enough? Probably. Band aids were the answer to any kind of injury in his opinion and in the past they had always been good enough. If it turned out it would get worse he’d just ask Melissa for any help. Putting iodine on it couldn’t hurt either.

Just that it could.

Like _really_.

“Shit,” he whined, removing the tissue with the orange-brown liquid and just put a white bandage over the wound and taped it, putting some pressure on the fabric to make it stick better. There, that should be it, he assumed.

The first thing he did after he had entered his room was throw away his Silent Hill Collection. He might have shed a tear but he would never admit to it. However, he had his own personal up-and-close first person survival horror experience, he’d never need it _ever_ again. Fucking nurse bitch.

Then he sat down at his laptop, randomly opening some pages. He would just stay awake until his father came home. Making sure he was okay. It couldn’t be that long anyway. And it wasn’t like he was really tired or anything.

* * *

The next time he opened his eyes it was morning, rays of sunshine obnoxiously lighting up his room. He groaned when he noticed he had fallen asleep on his desk, his neck and back protesting the unpleasant sleeping position. So did Stiles. Keyboard imprints on his cheek, a page open he couldn’t remember opening and his cursor blinking furiously, complaining about a lack of characters to carry on his sleep writings of dfsaaaaaaaaaa. Stiles couldn’t even be bothered to scroll down to see how much he had typed during his sleep. Instead, he looked around his room, trying to sort his memories. Somehow, what had happened the night before just seemed like some kind of bad dream.

If it weren’t for the pain in his shoulder.

He leaned back in his chair, stretching his maltreated limbs when his eyes fell on the plate wrapped in silver paper with a note attached to it.

‘Stop staying up late. You’ve got school. Love, Dad’.

Apparently his father had come in early instead of really, really late and made him breakfast.

And oh shit!

_School!_

He was wide awake now, his eyes instantly fixed on the clock of his laptop. But it was only six which was very good. Not under usual circumstances. Usually six am was the epitome of evil, about the time he would go _to bed_ on weekends not wake up. This time it was acceptable. Enough time to eat the sandwiches, shower and take a look at that thing in his shoulder. In that order.

The hoody he had discarded on the floor was now neatly folded on his cupboard, his bag that he had left in the hallway right next to it. Stiles really shouldn’t make his father clean after him. Least of all when he had gotten home from a night shift.

Before he left his room he got his Silent Hill Collection out of the trash. Except for the HD Collection and The Origins. Because they had sucked big time.

As he passed his fathers door he stopped, listening for any noises. “Dad?” he called quietly. No reply. “Just, you know, thanks.” Still no reply. His father was probably fast asleep anyway. Then he padded to the bathroom. The wound in his shoulder stung a little but it seemed better than a few hours prior. If it left a scar it was probably a good reminder never to go into the woods alone again.

Before Stiles stripped out of his jeans to throw them into the laundry, he pulled the jeans chain out of his pocket, loosed the carabiner clasp and put it on the cabinet, then stopped mid-movement, furrowing his brow as he followed along the chain with his eyes.

Where was the pendant?

He put his hand into his pockets, but only touched denim. Stiles was _pretty_ sure he had put the leather strap with the pendant on his jeans chain and then into his pockets.

Maybe the hoody?

He left the bathroom, almost running to his room, joggling the sweater and putting his hands in the kangaroo pocket. Empty. Then he took his bag, emptying it on the floor, his hands frantically pushing through the stuff he kept in there all the while muttering under his breath, growing more anxious the longer he needed to look through everything and still coming up empty.

Then he remembered the night. Him fumbling for his keys. Maybe the leather had somehow come off? Maybe he had dropped it when he got the keys out of his pocket? And then, with a sudden sense of dread, he remembered the nut-case going for his collar.

“No, no, no. _Shit_.”

Had he been actually _wearing_ the leather chain around his _neck_? Why would he do that? He usually kept it in his pockets because his body so wasn’t built for any kind of accessories but it was all he had left from his mother and he _wanted_ to have it on him wherever he went. Maybe he had put it around his neck because he was afraid to loose it otherwise?

And maybe that stupid bitch had grabbed the necklace as well. Had she ripped it? Was it now somewhere under the foliage?

He was never going to find it there.

And fuck no, he didn’t want to get back to the woods, anyway.

Not alone.

No, this time he would take Scott with him.

Good idea.

* * *

“Come again?”

Yeah, that was about the reaction Stiles had expected.

It wasn’t like he _wanted_ to go back into the forest. And in his desperation to avoid this whole conversation he had searched the car before driving to school, ignoring the axe pointedly glaring at him from the passenger seat. He unearthed forgotten burgers that had started their second regeneration cycle in the form of mildew, crumbs of various origin, discarded pens, half-finished bottles of soft drinks and cans and seriously, Stiles jeep was a garbage dump. He should take better care of her or she would never forgive and leave him. He told her that. She didn’t answer. Which probably was a good thing because if she had, Stiles would have seriously contemplated laying off the Adderall.

But to no avail. No necklace. And now he had to face Scott. Who just stared at him in disbelieve and then in annoyance and then it was a mixture of resignation and curiosity. Which was strange. Nobody should be able to pull something like that off.

“What were you even doing there?”

“Police radio. Heard about a dead body. Well, part of it.”

“And you thought it would be a good idea to just go there?” Scott shook his head, his bicycle helmet swinging loosely around his hand on the straps.

“Apparently.”

“Did you even know what you were looking for?”

“Part of a body?”

“Yeah, but which one?”

Stiles just shrugged, ignoring the sting in his shoulder. “Well, it turned out to be the upper half.”

“ _Stiles_! You found it?” Scott was leaning his face in, looking wildly around and whispering in a hushed breath as if he was thinking someone would overhear them, which, no. They weren’t that important. He could probably talk as loud as he wanted and people would just run past them.

“Yep, totally did.”

And he was proud of that even if it had been disturbing, and maybe he _was_ puffing up his chest a little, as he wiggled his eyebrows, a pleased smirk tugging on his lips. For a good reason, too. Not that he could tell Scott. He would probably never get close to the preserve ever again if Stiles told him about that axing murder bitch. But the axe was now in his custody and the nurse hopefully gone.

So the woods were safe.

Scott’s eyes were wide for a second, pure adulation and curiosity visibly present, before he furrowed his brow. “What would you have done if whatever had killed it had returned?”

Stiles shrugged again in forced nonchalance. “Hadn’t thought about that.”

“Dude, what if something had happened to you?”

“Don’t worry, there was a search party in the woods with me. Well, not exactly _with_ me.”

“Next time you totally have to call. At least let us know where you are. I mean, why didn’t you call me?” Scott looked like a kicked puppy, dejected even and maybe a quarter relieved that Stiles _hadn’t_ called, because he was a huge pussy and probably scared of the woods at night.

Legitimately so, but _still_.

“You probably wanted to have a good nights sleep. First day of school and such? And you had been going on about making first line.” Stiles defended himself, his hand waving at him in a dismissive gesture. “Wouldn’t want to crush your pathetically unrealistic dream by dragging you into the woods.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Scott pouted.

“That’s me. Always the supporter,” Stiles smirked.

Stiles doubted that crazy wench was still out there. Maybe she was found by the search party? Though it wasn’t like they could take her in. On what charge anyway? Using an axe in the forest? Illegal deforestation? If she hadn’t been swinging that tool at _him_ he would have probably brushed that incident off himself.

And Stiles really needed Scott’s _eyes_. Because that was actually all his best friend was good for. Cuddles, puppy dog eyes and hawk vision. And moral support. Mostly moral support. And moral conscience, maybe. To keep Stiles grounded because _his_ morals were somewhere between Satan and Bin Laden. He doubted Scott vision was that good, but hey, better four than two.

“So what do you say, after school, preserve?”

“I’m not sure…” Scott eyed him, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Oh come on, this is the coolest thing that has happened in Beacon Hills ever—” And suddenly there was flaming strawberry blond hair in his peripheral and he was drawn to it like bees round a honeypot. “Ever since the birth of Lydia Martin,” he finished lamely, following her step absentmindedly as she approached him, sucking the air in, when she was throwing her hair behind her back and it was like she was walking in slow motion towards him. “Hey Lydia, you look—” And past him, which, yeah, of course, what was he expecting? “Like you’re gonna ignore me.”

Nothing new about that actually.

He shook his head, his foot tapping on the ground as he turned to look at his best friend. “You’re the cause of this, you know?” Stiles accused his him. Scott watched him with a complicated expression, opened his mouth as if he was about to reply but decided against it, and _dude_ , Scott should have known that he was joking and it kind of offended him, that he didn’t. “You’re dragging me down to your nerd depths,” he continued just to annoy Scott, as he turned around to enter the school building and then he could hear a hesitant chuckle from his friend as he followed. “I’m a nerd by association. I've been scarlet-nerded by you!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Scott said and Stiles shoulders relaxed when he heard the genuine amusement.

 * * *

First lesson was English. Mister Curtis was giving them a speech about the dead body in the woods. Stiles more or less ignored him until the man told them that the police had a suspect in custody, which was strange because they had been advertising that as an _animal attack_. Scott looked at him and Stiles lightly shook his head in a _no, I don’t know what he’s talking about_ kind of way. He wondered if they had caught Axe Bitch and assumed it was her.

That would be great.

Stiles was just in the process of scanning his syllabus when the door suddenly opened and the Vice-Principal walked in, followed by a brunette girl and oh my god, seriously Scott? Could you stare any more obviously? Stiles could practically hear the violins hanging above his head.

The boy watched his friend, then the girl, nodded at her in acknowledgment when their eyes met as she made her way through the rows, then back to Scott when she sat down behind him.

That was… He should have sat behind Scott because that was just embarrassing. Why wasn’t he sitting behind Scott anyway? Right, because it was easier to make eye contact and roll their eyes at the lame things the teacher was saying when they sat next to each other. Almost at least. And because Stiles would kill to get a seat next to the window.

Jesus, Scott, _close your mouth_!

Stiles played with his lesson plan, fiddling around with the edges, ripping pieces off and rolling them between thumb and forefinger into tiny balls and ignored the droning of their teacher. He wasn’t particularly interested in a story about some human turned into some insect-thingy monster. He had his own problems. He didn’t need to read about a fictional person trying to deal with their fictional problems, because their family suddenly hated them for being a monster.

He only looked up from his busy task of destroying school property because the new girl – Alice was it? – uneasily shifted around in her seat, as she leaned over her notebook and scratched with her nail on the paper. He raised his eyebrows. Stiles had done that as a kid a lot, pretending they were some hidden messages he had to deliver to Scott, who would gleefully use his pencil to make the marks visible. When they were kids it was pure magic. Now it was just dumb and not magic at all. He kinda doubted that she was going for that, though. Curiously he turned his head, now blatantly watching her. She just had her shoulders hunched, cursing under her breath. Then she sighed and started writing something on her phone, probably sending a message or such.

Stiles had lost interest in her at that, until he realized that she was typing down whenever the teacher said something or wrote something on the board and that’s when it hit him.

She didn’t have anything to write with.

He wondered why she hadn’t just asked someone.

It was probably a first impression thing. Stiles wouldn’t know about stuff like that, though.

But well, maybe Scott could use a good first impression.

 **Give new girl a pen** , he texted Scott.

Nothing. No vibration, no music, no ping and Scott wasn’t even reacting, just continued to maltreat his notebook as if he was writing down every word the teacher said. Which was likely because Scott wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box to begin with and couldn’t distinguish important from unimportant.

He took one of the paper pellets and flicked it at Scott. The first one missed, the second hit Scott on the cheek, but his friend just brushed his hand over it as if some insect had been bugging him. The third hit the arm and so did a few after that. Stiles had stopped counting and just suppressed a groan, when the area around Scott’s table started to look like a paper pellet graveyard.

Well, then.

“Scott…” Stiles called under his breath. When the other boy didn’t react, he looked at the teacher, before he leaned further forward. “Scott, hey _Scott_.”

Alice looked up, catching his eyes. Stiles just nodded at her, fell back into his seat, puffing out his cheek as he looked out of the window. He waited until she returned her attention back to her notes.

Then he threw his eraser against Scott’s head.

The floppy haired boy jerked in his seat, then turned around to throw him a dirty look. Stiles just rolled his eyes, held his smartphone up, expressively pointing at it. Scott furrowed his brows, before he started to dig in his bag, hand aimlessly searching for his own phone. He looked at the message, then turned back to Stiles.

 _What?_ He mouthed, throwing a weary look at the teacher who was still writing down Kafka’s biography on the black board, totally oblivious to their non-acoustic conversation.

Stiles shrugged his shoulders as his hands made a wild rotating gesture that hopefully asked Scott what the hell he was waiting for.

Scott just squinted his eyes as if that would help him understand.

Irritated, Stiles sent another message.

**She doesn’t have a pen. Give her one.**

_No_ , Scott replied, glancing at the girl behind him in horror.

Stiles rolled his eyes. **Why not?** It wasn’t like anyone could miss his awkwardly obvious stares, anyway. So he might as well just get it over with.

That was the moment Scott decided to use his phone instead of his expressive puppy dog eyebrow mimic. Which was good, because Stiles was only so good at reading lips anyway.

**She'd think i’m crazy and btw i think U’R crazy!!!**

Three exclamation marks? Really now?

**Just do it. It’s not like you weren’t trying to find a way to talk to her**

**STILES! I’m NOT giving her my pen!**

If they were still in grade school, they would furiously throw notes at each other over the heads of their classmates by now, while their teacher pointedly ignored them, because he wasn’t paid enough to care or deal with that shit. To be fair, nobody was paid enough to deal with Stiles and Scott in one classroom. But they weren’t in grade school anymore. They were in high school and therefore mature, so they aggressively typed on their phones to yell at each other in caps lock.

**JUST DO IT**

**NO!!!**

**YOU SUCK SCOTT**

**NO YOU SUCK**

**Never mind. I think greenburg noticed and is going to give her 1  
**

That was a lie. Greenburg had probably not even realized that there was a new girl in the class right now, but Scott snapped his head around to look at the sandy haired boy who was currently chewing on his pencil.

**I ONLY HAVE THIS ONE PEN!**

Stiles could practically hear the indignation and desperation from these words. He didn’t even need to look at Scott’s eyebrows jumping up and down in panic by now to notice that he indeed wished he had a second pen. Stiles groaned as he rolled his head back, his mouth slightly open in disbelieve, because leave it to Scott to worry about stuff like that.

With an annoyed sigh, Stiles grabbed his Invader Zim pen.

 **Now you have two,** he wrote and after Scott had read the message and turned to look at him with a curious expression, he threw it. Probably with more force than necessary.

Stiles was the best friend ever.

* * *

“You are the worst friend ever!” Scott whined on their way to the field.

And he was.

_He was._

Scott was sure of it because Stiles was evil. And mean. And crazy. And mentally confused. But they weren’t talking about that. He generally tried to ignore that part anyway. No, right now, he was focusing on the evil part. On the smirking because nobody smirked like Stiles. Like he had just thought up a plan to rule the world and was going to drag Scott down with him.

Because Stiles dragged Scott into all kinds of depths and heights and it was good and they were cool but it was cruel when he remembered so he forced himself not to. And then he looked at Allison, sitting on the bleachers next to Lydia.

Being with Stiles was a whirlwind of emotions because it was fun and torture and guilt and pain and love. Not the _love-love_ love, but a fondness. A brotherly love.

Scott liked it when they were in the funny stages, fooling around, treading on other people’s nerves and Scott hated it when they got to the other stages, which were annoying and confusing and painful and bitter and sarcastic.

Because Stiles was so _cruel_.

And he didn’t even know.

But _point_.

Stiles was pure evil.

And Scott was glaring at the other boy to convey this thought.

“Dude,” Stiles started, a tremor in his voice betraying his amusement. _Evil_ “I’m not going to apologize for giving you the chance to talk to a hot girl.” Stiles held his hands up in mock defense, as Scott narrowed his eyes. “Which you totally blew by the way.”

Scott’s face reddened as he tried to forget the morning class, tried to forget the look on Allison’s face when he had turned back to her to drop the pen off on her table as fast as he could just to get it over with. Because that had been agonizing, right there.

“I expect you to do the same if I ever get into the same situation, just so you know.” Stiles added.

“With or without _everyone_ watching you?”

Because half of the class had.

Their wild typing on the phones hadn’t been noticed as much as they had expected. But it was the pen loudly clattering on the table after it had hit Scott square in the face that had zoomed the class’s attention on him and made his teacher stop mid-sentence. Scott had just stared at the black board. Because for a first impression, that was totally the worst. And Stiles couldn’t even hide a laugh. And it had been _his_ fault to begin with.

Stiles was the _worst_.

But he couldn’t deny that Allison – and her name was kind of like bells in the heaven’s or something like that and _not_ Alice has he had to tell Stiles several times – had sneaked a few peeks at him during the rest of the day, especially that one time she had been talking to Lydia and Jackson in the hall and Scott had been unable to tear his eyes away from her angelic face. She had actually smiled at him. Which was the best thing that had happened to him ever since he was born. And she was a new girl so there was a lot she didn’t know and she would probably not prejudice. Hopefully.

Just that he had a feeling that Lydia or Jackson would brief her as soon as Stiles or him would attract attention. Talking about them and their loser status and then some. It was difficult to _not_ attract attention with someone like Stiles. Quirky and nervous and loud and brutally honest and straightforward and a little bit mental.

Alright, maybe there was a whole lot of mental.

Corpse? Night? Woods? _Alone_?

Just saying.

“Come on, just get over it,” Stiles said, throwing his helmet and lacrosse stick to the ground because he didn’t care about his equipment. Because he had somehow realized and accepted the fact that he would never play first line in this world. Jackson wouldn’t let him. No one would. It was a wonder he was allowed to even join the team even if it only was as bench warmer.

However Scott still had hope.

“I’m over it. They aren’t!” Scott whined, pointing at a few of their classmates that stared at them, whispered and then laughed. He had heard them talking, calling him Pen-boy which was the reason he had that argument with Stiles for the _sixth time_ that day. When he shifted his attention from the gossiping girls he met Allison’s eyes.

And she smiled at him.

Probably because she was an angel.

And because she didn’t know.

“McCall!” He startled when Coach Finstock called him, without any warning pressing a goalie stick into his hands because he had the misfortune of standing there instead of sitting down on the bench like Stiles. Because Stiles was smarter and _wasn’t even thinking of telling Scott to do the same_. “You’re on goal.”

_Goal?_

He had never played goal. Actually he had never played anything in Lacrosse. He had been running around getting balls, running laps until his asthma kicked in and he had to stop and suffer Coach Finstocks rant about his stamina that somehow always ended with some kind of objectionable innuendo hinting on his most likely disappointing pathetic and very much non-existent sex life. Scott had never done anything in a game, practise game or training on the field _at all_. Which he told Finstock. Not in those word’s but he did tell him.

“I know. Scoring some shots will give the boys a confidence boost. It's a first day back thing. Get 'em energized, fired up!”

Stiles was evil. Finstock was evil.

And Scott just had to resign to the fact, that everything in this world hated him.

Grudgingly, he strolled to the goal.

He was so done.

* * * 

“So this is where I parked,” Stiles said, jiggling the car keys in his hands as Scott left the jeep and slammed the door shut, “Let’s start here.”

“I kind of have a bad feeling about this,” Scott admitted, eyeing the ground suspiciously as if it was about to open up and swallow them whole. Stiles couldn’t even deny that it was a legitimate option. “How far have you been from here?”

“Couple of minutes. Twenty tops.”

Scott blinked. “Full speed running or leisurely walking?”

“Both?”

“Why is that a question?”

“Wrong intonation?”

Scott scowled.

Stiles just smirked.

“Any estimate on how long this will take us?” Scott sighed like the worries of the world rested on his shoulder.

“Dunno. Hours? Days? I don't care because I won't leave without it.”

“Yes, I know.” Scott replied, then tugged on Stiles’ sleeve. “Let’s do this. We’ll be better than any track dog.”

Stiles nodded, then crouched down, moving leaves with his hands, while the other boy set out to work a few feet away from him. Stiles could still see the wheel track, some of his foot prints when he stepped on muddy ground instead of leaves, even the place where he had dropped his keys a few times and dug into the soft earth as his fingers had picked them up again. But he couldn’t even remember wearing boots and… what?

He furrowed his brows, as he leaned in closer, moving the dried leaves to the side and then sucked the air in with a sharp breath when he noticed a second set of foot prints right next to his.

“You found something?”

“No, pricked my finger. Hurts,” Stiles lied, his eyes wide as he stood up straight, slowly tracking down the path of bigger and heavier foot prints with his eyes leading him along the road out of the forest. The same way his jeep had gone.

“Lame,” Scott laughed and returned to check the ground.

“You're lame,” he answered preoccupied.

The woman had been shorter than him, and probably lighter. She wouldn’t have left deeper prints than Stiles. It couldn’t be her. There were no paws from a dog so he doubted it was someone from the search party. They wouldn’t have been alone anyway.

But whoever it was had been following his tire tracks.

Admittedly, that was scary.

“I don’t think it’s here,” Scott suddenly interrupted his thoughts, walking up to him. “You alright? Bleeding to death?”

Stiles rolled his eyes, then punched him in the arm. “I found some of my footprints. Makes it easier to track my path.”

Scott shrugged. Because he didn’t know and he didn’t care. He was fully trusting Stiles on this and that was some very badly placed trust.

They slowly ventured further into the woods, Stiles trying to keep track of the environment and his foot prints, which wasn’t as easy as he had expected. He wasn’t a professional tracker but it didn’t take a genius to see the different pattern in boot and shoe prints, size and depth and sometimes even shape of the second pair that had trailed after him. If Scott noticed his uneasiness he didn’t comment on it, or probably put it off to his usual restlessness. Or to the fact that this was a completely hopeless cause and both knew it.

A dark brown leather strap with a dark brown gemstone attached to it? In a wood full of yellowed leaves and bad lighting and muddy soil and probably larcenous birds that would use it to decorate their homes?

This was beyond all hope.

Even for Stiles’ standards.

But he would never admit that.

Because he was going to get that pendant back if it killed him.

After half an hour he started to curse under his breath, nervously looking around. There was a nagging thought at the back of his mind that kept telling him that he had just missed it, that it had been there, right in front of them and they had overlooked it. That if they had checked twice or even a third time they would have seen it. It nearly drove him insane.

“If this was a movie,” Stiles started and Scott looked up at him, “we would now see a sequence from the necklace’s point of view and how we just stepped over it and went deeper into the forest, leaving it alone in the dirt. It might have fake tears, too. It might even cry out my name and I wouldn’t be able to hear it, because I’ve already gone too far.”

“That’s kind of sad,” Scott answered his lips curled in amusement while his eyebrows wanted to convey sorrow. It didn’t work well. “Come on, dude, stop worrying. We’re going to find it.”

“Yeah.” With a silent sigh Stiles jumped down a small embankment and great. The stream. He had completely forgotten the freaking mini-sized creek he just stepped into. And Scott right at his back, splashing water all over his jeans, almost making him double over. Stiles didn’t move an inch, his feet and shoes soaking in the water while he just hung his shoulders, looking up to the sky with an annoyed sigh, while cursing every God that might be present.

_He hated the woods._

“Dude,” Scott started, leading him on his shoulder over a branch and out of the water. “You don’t think you lost it here, do you?”

“No, not really…” Stiles answered, because he had an ounce of hope left inside of him, even though the universe loved to screw with him so much, Stiles was about to take that personally. If however by any fucked up joke of the divine the stone had fallen into the creek it was probably gone forever.

Scott fumbled in his pockets for his inhaler while they climbed another embankment Stiles couldn’t ever remember sliding down. But there was the creek and so it must be like somewhere close by or something. They should be at least partially right. Or completely wrong. Maybe they were following a trail that wasn’t even his.

“This is not good for me,” Scott said, interrupting his depressing thoughts after he had put his inhaler away.

“Think about it. This is endurance training for Lacrosse, Scott, _endurance training_.”

“Right, wouldn’t be a good idea to bring my inhaler to a game…”

Stiles wondered if inhalers were even allowed on the field. He should research that in case Scott did make first line. Maybe with the corresponding laws and some precedents, focused on authority cases. One never knew when he had to threaten the school with some legal action. Maybe he could actually _force_ them to let Scott play at least once every few months. He would have to research that as well. Handicapped severe asthmatic and such.

He knew that Adderall was kind of a problem, because some dumb-ass players in the sport leagues have been abusing it and it actually got _banned_ , so yeah, fuck you very much professional players. Now _he_ had to justify his legitimate drug abuse to coach Finstock until the man was running out of arguments and just started to blow his whistle. One of these days, Stiles would put something on that whistle. Maybe glue. Or a high dose of Propofol. He still wasn’t sure about the details.

“I don’t need much endurance as goalie.” Scott rationalized. “I can be goalie!”

“Sure,” Stiles agreed, scowling at his wet jeans, leaves and mud and probably little animals sticking to his leg. “When you can live with the constant discombobulation and hatred of your teammates, why not?”

“It was was my first time! And I wasn’t _that_ bad!”

Slowly, Stiles turned around to look at his friend, with an expression that said _are you totally bonkers_. Might as well have been his pitying _Yes, Scott, everything you say, Scott_ look. Because Scott had taken one ball after the other to his body and one directly in the nuts and thank God they were wearing protection because that would have hurt even more. Not that it didn’t _still_ hurt _with_ protection. Stiles had whimpered in sympathy when he had heard the dull thud and closed his legs tight in some kind of empathetic prevention measure. He maybe had felt some sort of phantom pain as well, because Scott and him? Totally connected on a higher meta level.

Jackson had deliberately aimed for the crotch. And Stiles had maybe put methylene blue in his shampoo in retaliation. But there had been no witnesses so according to the great just law of the USA _in dubio pro reo_.

“Plus points for not letting a ball get pass you,” Stiles said, choosing the democratic way. “Minus points for stopping them with your body.”

Scott pondered his word’s and Stiles grimaced when he felt something crawling up his leg, lifting his jeans to find out what was trying to threaten his balls because it would eventually end up there if he didn’t stop it.

And that totally looked like an Ohm. Just smaller and _ewww_. He snipped the insect from his leg with a disgusted frown.

“Do you think I have a chance with her?”

For a second Stiles didn’t even know what Scott was talking about – the Goddess of Lacrosse? Nike? Lady Fortune? – but because Scott was simple and he had been thinking about Lacrosse and Lacrosse was loosely connected to Allison as was almost every topic they talked about Stiles came to the conclusion that his very best friend was totally smitten by a beautiful face.

And it hadn’t even been _one_ day.

Not that he couldn’t relate, though.

“That depends,” he answered. “Are you going to continue to stare at her open-mouthed and wide-eyed or are you going to take some action?”

“Staring at her?”

“Then no.”

“Always a good decision to ask for your opinion.”

“Scott,” Stiles started, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. “As miraculous as the power of your magnificent puppy dog stare might be, I do believe a little more of … _conduct_ could be helpful.” Scott just looked at him like he suggested he should throw her on his bed and ravish her in broad daylight, which, _no_ , gross. “ _Talking_ might be a very good start,” he added quickly. “Not just tossing a pen on her table and staring at her awkwardly when she leans over you to ask if you were okay.”

Which she had done.

Like, _in real_.

Scott had finally been released from the torture and slunk back to the bleachers, trying to hide behind his hands or crawl into his own skin and disappear, when Allison tapped him on his shoulder, her lips curled in a concerned frown. For a second there Stiles had thought he was so much in tune with Scott that he not only could telepathically communicate over eye contact with his best friend but even started to share his daydreams. Stiles had pinched Scott in the hip to make sure that the incident indeed had been real. Scott had yelped and bitten his tongue instead of answering her question. Which resulted in even more awkward silence.

As far as first impressions went, they had done pretty well today.

“Talking, right. I’m not that good, with talking,” Scott admitted.

“Well, then you’re lucky, that I’m your friend. Because I’m really good at talking.”

The boy just raised his eyebrows in question.

“Guess we’ll have to buy you a mini ear plug,” Stiles offered, patting Scott on the shoulder, slightly putting his weight on him just to annoy him. “I do the talking, you do the repeating. We’ll be like Hitch and Albert, minus the kissing.”

“You’d do that?”

“Anything to get you laid.”

Scott rolled his eyes, but still huffed a short laugh. "Thanks man."

They returned back to their task at hand, Scott shuffling through the woods while Stiles pretended that he was only looking for a pendant instead of some potential nutcase trying to kill them. Stiles believed in strength of numbers and even if both of them could be knocked out by grade schoolers nobody actually knew that, so they could at least _fake_ being tough.

“This is actually nice,” Scott suddenly said, breaking the silence, when he knelt down, examining a stone before throwing it to the side, his hands brushing over the ground. “It’s been a while like this. With us.”

Stiles raised one eyebrow. “What? Searching mud for a brown gem is your interpretation of fun? Dude, you could have told me. I would have, like, hid easter eggs here for you or something.”

“Easter egg hunting?” Scott laughed. “We haven’t done that ever since…” He stopped himself, his eyes suddenly wide and body rigid, clenching his jaw shut with a gnarl and Stiles narrowed his eyes at him. “… since you stopped playing baseball,” he eventually finished, helplessly resuming his search.

And the heavy meaning beneath these words hit Stiles like a blow to the gut.

Because there was so much behind that statement.

A whole story of unspoken complications and stupid adult decisions and a hurtful string of coincidences. Because he didn’t just _simply stop_ playing baseball. He stopped because it was a difficult time for him. When his mother died and his father started drinking, and Scott had to move away with his father during the divorce process and when Stiles’ grandfather suddenly appeared on their doorsteps and his father had to go to the hospital because of alcohol poisoning and Melissa took Stiles in to take care of him until his father had gotten better.

It had been a chaotic time, painful, something Stiles very much would like to forget.

It was hard to believe that it had already been seven years.

And his silence must have said it all, because Scott heaved a sigh and looked at him with these big sad eyes he saw much too often on his friend's face. “I’m sorry I said that.”

“It’s been _years_ , Scott. I’m fine.”

Scott just watched him with a miserable expression.

“I mean, I still want that gemstone back because it’s all I have left from my mother and my father would probably kill me if he ever found out, but otherwise I’m fine.”

If possible, Scott looked even more put off, then opened his mouth to reply when he stopped and frowned and looked at something over Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles turned around to follow his eyes, searching the row of oak trees for whatever Scott had spotted. And then he saw it.

There was a symbol partly carved into, partly painted unto the trunk of one of the trees a few feet away, swirls and circles, dark red in color and when his eyes roamed the vicinity he realized that this was the place he had met that crazy ass nurse.

A shiver ran down his spine.

“What the hell,” he started as he turned his attention back on Scott and almost jumped out of his skin.

“What are you doing here?”

Scott shrieked like a girl, hurried up and fled the couple feet to Stiles, while both stared wide-eyed at the guy that had suddenly crept up on them. Like, really crept. Because Stiles had not heard a sound, no movement, no crushing of leaves under shoes. Fuck, that could have resulted into a heart attack right there. His body wasn’t built for stuff like that. No wonder he never got around to finishing the Fatal Frame series. His heart wouldn’t be able to take it.

When the dude approached them, they inched a couple of steps back. “This is private property.”

“Uh sorry man, we didn’t know,” he explained because someone _had_ to say something and Scott was scared stiff next to him. The man glared at them. With those expressive eyebrows that looked like you could hold whole conversations with them. Or they with each other. Menacing eyebrows? Was that even possible? The guy stayed silent, roaming their bodies. Stiles had a feeling he wanted to memorize their faces so he could later track them both down and murder them in their sleep.

And suddenly his eyes locked on Stiles.

Because Stiles couldn’t keep his fucking mouth shut. And why was Scott clinging to _him_? Pussy, such a _pussy_.

And was that a growl he heard?

Was there someone _growling_ at them now? Or was Scott just hungry because they had been here for at least an hour?

The man lifted his arm and seriously, if he revealed yet another axe he would be so fucking done with the preserve!

Stiles caught the movement and acted on it before his brain had the chance to follow up, his palm open and reaching out to meet the thrown object before it could rebound on his body.

Dumbfounded, he stared at the object in his hand, strap dirty and broken, the gem dull with scratches and cracks, then looked up and back to the man. But before he could say anything he just turned around and walked off.

They were both silent for a moment, Stiles just staring and Scott flexing his fingers to get some blood back into them. “Hey, that’s your stone!” he suddenly blurted out when he glanced at Stiles’ hand, then frowned. “But who was that?”

“Derek Hale,” Stiles answered, his hand clenching around the nearly broken moon stone when he pressed his lips together in a thin line.

“Who?”

Stiles lifted his chin, his eyes still following the man even though he couldn’t see him anymore. “You remember? His family burned to death in a fire, about six years ago.”

“Shit. No. I wonder what he’s doing back.”

“Me too,” Stiles replied, squinting his eyes.

“Anyway, it’s good we have your necklace back. That was actually pretty nice of him,” Scott continued and Stiles blinked for a second, then watched his retreating back. “Neat. Now I don’t have to miss work.”

“Dude, you could have told me you have work today!” Stiles exclaimed and followed Scott, torso turning slightly to throw a last look back.

“Well, I wasn’t going to let you search alone, so it doesn’t matter.”

Stiles bit back the small smile that played on his lips. He really didn't deserve a friend like Scott.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was "inspired" by a friend who asked me to write her a Romeo and Juliet Hunter!Stiles story which, yeah, isn't going to turn out the way she wanted. Firstly, because Derek and Stiles are not going to commit suicide or die, so no Shakesperian factor there. Secondly, because I refuse to write nauseously sweet dialogues about only loves sprung from only hates and loathed enemies. Which in retrospect would hold a high amusement factor thinking of Derek as Juliet pining after Stiles.
> 
> Anyway, Yune was met with utter refusal, when she asked me. Because writing Stiles is one hell of a challenge and I knew that (Don't know why people willingly chose to write him. He's TRICKY). Turned out Derek was even more difficult, though.
> 
> After a couple of mind-blowing suggestions on her part and defiant LALALALAs on my part I gave in to her request. So here we are. Somehow.
> 
> Never thought I would write a Teen Wolf FF.
> 
> Enjoy, though.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my wonderful beta ToriTC198, who is not only the fastest beta I ever had but also a joy to talk to!

Laura usually told him in person when she was going to be absent for a couple of days. The fact that she had only left a note on the fridge told him that she didn’t want him to find out in time to stop her.

Which was why, as soon as he found the piece of paper, he called her phone.

Some business she had to tend to, she said. Family related. In Beacon Hills. Something about the property, kids breaking in and lawyers getting called in and she was thinking of selling, getting some money. She was reluctant to give him more detailed information, like she thought it was taboo to even talk to him about anything regarding their past.

And maybe it was.

Derek wasn’t sure himself, though he was very good at convincing himself that what was in the past was past.

He asked if she wanted him around. For whatever. 

She said she could handle it herself.

He tried not to be relieved.

Laura kept him updated over the days, sending him messages talking about the drive to Beacon Hills, told him it hadn’t changed one bit, told him she paid her respects to the family, told them ‘hi’ from Derek as well, told him that she had bought yellow comets and put them on the grave, told him that she was going to meet the lawyers. That she loved him.

And then the messages suddenly stopped.

After two days of updates his phone went completely silent. Maybe she had forgotten her charger. Maybe she broke it. Maybe she lost it. Maybe someone stole it. There were a vast number of possibilities.

But he knew.

Derek knew from her last text that something had been going on. Something _else_. Something Laura hadn’t shared. She had always made sure he knew that she loved him, but she never said it. Not with words. Because Derek had stopped trusting them. But he had ignored his gut feeling telling him something was off, assumed he was just being paranoid, brushed it off as Laura just telling him because she couldn’t show through actions over the phone.

Derek had been at work, filing away folders with distracted apathy, checking his phone every few seconds, pacing up and down while ignoring Crazy Millie’s worried glances, when he finally made the decision. He left without a word, went home, grabbed his passport and took the next flight to Sacramento.

He ignored the attendants and the crying child sitting in the next seat and the mother smiling apologetically at him with faked coyness. Derek just blocked out everything, scowling at the phone clutched in his hand as if it was denying him access to the world by refusing to get any signal in flight modus. He narrowed his eyes, because maybe it was just that. Maybe Laura couldn’t call him. Because the Hale Mansion was somewhere in the middle of nowhere with no reception. Maybe he was just overreacting.

There was nothing left in Beacon Hills that could harm an adult werewolf, and Laura was more than just a healthy Alpha. She was smart and strong, fast and perceptive. She was completely capable of defending herself against anything and Derek was just a fool for believing otherwise.

As soon as he arrived at the Sacramento Airport he turned his phone back on, grudgingly eager for any incoming messages. There had only been one. From his boss demanding an explanation. Derek ignored it. He left the airport and rode into town on a bus, then rented a car and made his way up to Beacon Hills.

He had never wanted to step foot back into that cursed town. He had been selfishly and guiltily glad that Laura had not asked him to tag along.

Too many fond memories corrupted by stupid decisions.

His stupid decisions.

They had never talked about it, but Laura had known. And she had told him that she forgave him, that she was there for him. Yet whenever she looked Derek in the eyes, he could see a flicker of doubt, like she wasn’t sure herself. She probably wanted to. Because they were all they had and they clung to that with claws and teeth no matter how difficult it got. So she had stopped using words. Because they might have been a lie.

Instead she chose actions, doing everything in her power. To pull him through school, through college, to make ends meets. She was devoted, hard-working, shelving her own needs, trying to keep it all together, to be his backbone and pillar of support. And Derek had given her a hard time, refusing to leave his room, to even leave his _bed_ , wallowing in self-pity and regrets and later in anger and hatred.

She could have forced him to do anything, to make him leave the apartment, go to school.

Because she was the new Alpha.

But she never did.

She had been barely eighteen back then.

And she never changed into her werewolf form ever again, because seeing her red eyes made it all too real and they both wanted to pretend that it wasn’t real. Over the time pretending became an art form. Like during the nights, when Derek was pretending he didn’t hear her choked sobs from the other room. And she pretended she didn’t hear his screaming and yelling and punching and banging. He pretended he couldn’t hear her standing in front of his door almost every night, hand hovering over the handle while he was wrapped in his blankets. And she pretended she didn’t know why Derek refused human contact.

Derek was about an hour away from Beacon Hills when something in his chest started to ache. A dull pain, almost insignificant if it weren’t for his throbbing heartbeat. He gripped the steering wheel tight, his breath catching in his throat. For a few seconds his vision blurred and he hit the brakes, pulling the car over and it stopped with a high-pitched squeal.

He gasped for air, his eyes wide.

“No.”

He shoke his head. His fingertips tingled and he stared at his hands, because they helped him to block out what he was feeling, made him focus on something other than the surge of power, the blood pulsing hot in his veins, rushing through his body.

“No…” he repeated.

This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be true. And as if to proof it to himself he looked up to the rear view mirror.

Vivid red gazed back at him.

Derek closed his eyes, taking a deep breath in, before he opened them again with determination.

Then he started the engine, gunning the car, probably breaking several laws but he had to make sure. As soon as possible. Had to make sure that Laura was alright, that she was okay and fine and she would greet him with a disapproving frown because he should have stayed home, had to get ready for exams and not come back to this town, haunted by ghosts.

She had to.

Laura couldn’t be dead.

 

It took him shortly over half an hour to get to Beacon Hills, twenty minutes to get to the preserve. He jumped out of the car, leaving the door open, rushing through the woods, shifting during his run to be faster, to catch her scent to find out where she had gone, to listen to any sounds.

But there were a lot of humans in the forest, dogs barking in the distance, Laura’s distinct odor almost perishing among the many smells he could pick up.

Yet he refused to acknowledge, he refused to believe that the only family he had left was gone, so he chased her faded trail. Even though it had been so many years, he could still recognize the way she had gone, back to their old house, what used to be their home. When he arrived at the burned remains, the sight stunned him for a short moment. The once white veneer a wall of musty black, the well cared for flowers overgrown by weeds, the building only a dark shadow of the past. The black Camaro Laura had driven up to Beacon Hills the only reminder of their brother untouched by flames, now a perverse contrast to the destruction around it.

Derek swallowed hard, fighting with himself to tear his eyes away.

She wasn’t there, he knew, but he could pick her scent up better than before. He was by now hitting the limits to even his superhuman speed to be with her faster. To save her. Because he could save her. This time _he_ would save Laura. This time he was going to help and support her. Because Derek was her brother.

He almost missed it in his frantic thoughts, the dark shadows in the moonlight. His body went cold and for a few seconds he just stood there, puzzled, numb, taking in the scene, his eyes instantly locking on his sister. It took him a lot of effort to get his feet moving again, to make them approach her.

“Laura?” he asked, expecting an answer because that was what Laura did: absentmindedly looking up, interrupting whatever she was doing when he wanted to talk to her. Because nothing was more important than family at this point. She would always answer. With a smile or a smirk or an annoyed sigh or with a nod of her head, her eyes looking at him, not past him, not through him, not like he wasn’t there.

But this time she didn’t. And she never will again. Because her skin was ashen and her lips bloodless and her eyes wide and distant and her dark hair a red mess.

Gravity pulled him to his knees. Carefully, like he could break her if he went too fast, Derek reached out, gently touching her cheek, brushing some stray strands of hair out of her face.

Her skin was cold under his fingertips.

Derek wasn’t waiting for an answer anymore. An answer that he knew would never come, because he had been too slow, because he had left her alone, a desperate, mournful whimper escaping his lips, the coldness and dampness clinging to his clothes, but Derek just pulled her into his arms, embracing her like he had never done before. Like he should have done as long as he could still listen to her soothing heartbeat and her shallow breathing, when he could still smell her shampoo and not the blood and dirt and decay.

He took deep breaths when he finally eased his grip on her after a long moment. There were no apologies on his lips, no questions, just sorrow, regret and grief accumulated in one long howl, which turned into an angry roar when he remembered her last words, his face crunched in fury, because _Laura had _known__. And suddenly he hated her for leaving without saying anything. For not trusting him. For not taking him along. For always putting up with everything on her own.

And most of all he hated himself for making her feel like she couldn’t rely on him, like she couldn’t burden him with anything, as if he would crumble under the pressure.

But he _won’t_.

His voice went raw, howling gradually subsiding, when his eyes trailed over Laura’s face, before he put her down again, turning around to get a better look at the second body. He frowned, eyes taking in the slippers, dressing gown and pants with bemused surprise, before they moved up to the face.

Derek’s breath hitched.

And his brain froze.

_Because this didn’t make any sense._

“Uncle Peter,” was all he could press out between gritted teeth.

He didn’t _understand_.

Laura’s death was cruel and incomprehensible, but she had been an Alpha, healthy, capable of fighting. But Peter, Peter was... Peter, who had been unable to walk, talk, think, who had vegetated in a catatonic state ever since the fire, who had been completely _defenseless_ , dragged into the woods to get _killed?_

This was worse.

This was utterly disgusting and dastardly.

Derek’s face twisted in outrage and his heart started to hammer in his chest. The muscles in his body tensed, his hands balling into tight fists as his breath became heavy with barely restrained rage.

Derek picked their trail up without even trying, one distinct scent in the air, so all over the place he wondered why he had not noticed it earlier. His muscles flexed and ached and his neck cracked, skin itching to shift as he changed into his wolf form, dashing through the woods, stirring up the leaves under his claws. He saw it all like a red thread, swirls on the ground that twisted between the trees and around each other until they looped around a small object on the ground. His eyes darted wildly around, he was growling and howling and breathing in short puffs until his eyes refocused on the item again. There was fear and annoyance in the air, and a second track, faint but full with determination.

Derek leaned in closer to the necklace, sniffing, and the second he picked it up his nerves suddenly seemed to calm down, his instincts completely suppressed as he shifted back to his human form. The gemstone he was holding in his hands was reflecting the dim moon light with unnatural intensity.

Dark brown moonstone, he realized in confusion.

He held it up, watching the display of different colors, a spark in the middle making it look like eyes were staring back at him. They used to have one like that as a kid. To prevent sudden shape shifting in public. Even though they were home schooled until they could actively control their forms it wasn’t like they were confined to the house. If they left the grounds they were forced to take the necklaces with them. It was okay for a few hours, but started to hurt after a while.

It looked almost like the one his mother had bought for Cora. _Cora_. It had been years since he had last used that name even if it was just in his head. He looked around the forest, where they used to play as kids, but there was no childish laughter anymore, trees dried up and barren.

What was he even doing? He asked himself, one hand running through his hair as he just stood there.

He was following a trail, not knowing what he had to expect. A hunter who had killed two werewolves. Maybe later joined by a second hunter. How would he be able to defend himself if they heard his clomping through the woods? Derek hadn't even tried to be subtle or quiet, he had just been dashing, mindlessly, _without thinking_. A habit that had always gotten him into trouble

Yet, he still clung to the tiny hope that the responsible person wasn’t far, that he could get to them, confronting them. Asking them why. Because Laura had never hurt anyone, because Peter hadn’t been in the position to defend himself.

His blood boiled at the thought of the family he had left behind, but he continued to follow the first trace, not calm but at least quietly. The scent lead him to a parking lot, slowly disappearing but the tire trails were a sure lead, so he followed them until he reached the road. His eyes roamed the vicinity and then fixed on the flickering lights of the town, peaceful and clueless.

As expected, they were gone.

Derek turned around, taking another route back to where he had left Laura and Peter, each step faster than the one before until he fell into another run and reached the clearing. He was working on auto pilot, when he lifted their bodies up and brought them to the house, the only place he could think of.

It had taken him a very long time to get himself to enter the house. His steps had been insecure and reluctant, he had almost been at a point where he wanted to turn around and just dig the graves with his claws. But his feet instinctively lead him to the kitchen, the room they had gathered in most often, where it had always been noisy and loud and annoying and fun.

His eyes dropped to the long forgotten high chair, a baby’s rattle broken next to it and Derek turned around, pushing memories to the back of his mind. Because they were worthless and painful. There was nothing left of that family that used to laugh and yell at each other over silly things. They were all gone, now.

And for a moment Derek thought he finally understood what being alone meant.

The wooden slats creaked with every step. It pushed something inside him. Maybe it was his punishment, or a want to fuel his hatred. Whatever it was his feet took him to every room, and he looked around for something. Something that told him where they had died. What they might have been doing. Looking for something they might have had with them. A ring. Trinkets. _Something_.

His steps became more forceful, purposeful, steering clear of the cellar but moving with old confidence. It wasn’t that he felt comfortable in those walls, it felt more like he _had_ to be there, like he should stay to remember what he had tried to forget, what he thought he had forgotten in false safety.

What he wasn’t allowed to forget.

That there was _always_ someone out to get them, would get them if they become careless.

It was his own perverted epiphany.

And Laura had to pay the price for it.

Derek found a shovel in the winter garden, his hand wrapped tightly around the burned handle. His mother’s favorite place in the house, where she would read to the kids, where his father tended to the flowers.

When the sun was rising, fog covering the ground, he started to heave out the second hole, sweat dripping down his face as he tried to forgot what he was doing, for who he was doing it. Why. Every push into the sturdy soil feeding the rage inside him, numbing the pain.

Before Derek bedded Peter and Laura in respective their graves, he just looked at them. One last time.

Peter had been kind of a jerk, a little too offensive, a little too sarcastic, yet always strangely protective and ready to help, when needed. Derek knew that there had been tensions between his mother and her brother, sibling rivalry like he used to have with Laura, maybe a little stronger, reaching deeper. Now looking at Peter’s face twisted in pain, the burning marks proof of what he had to suffer during the fire, he hoped that his death had been a fast one. But the black veins from his shoulder, almost reaching the heart and the bloody knuckles at his hand told him otherwise. Fingers bent in awkward angles, like someone had broken every bone, Peter’s nails ripped out as if they had taken trophies.

Derek knew.

They had made him suffer.

Laura and Peter had never been on very good terms, and Derek wondered if they would have sneered at him, eyeing each other distrustfully, an insult on their lips they swallowed because they knew who could be listening in. For a second he thought about separating them further apart, but then he forcefully remembered.

The dead didn’t care.

Derek wrapped them in blankets, working tiny knots in a rope he had rolled around the covered bodies to make sure the blankets wouldn’t slip of. One, two, three, ten, twenty. Steadily, calmly, slowly, until he realized he took his time because he didn’t want to let them go. So he scolded himself and put them gently into the holes.

He hesitated before he started to drop the dirt on Laura, flinching the first time, the second time. When he finished the sun was up high. Derek sat at the foot of the stairs, just looking at the piled dirt. Minutes or hours. He didn’t know, he didn’t care.

He wondered if he had to contact someone. If there was someone Laura used to have a special relationship with. Friends? Boyfriend? He thought she had one. Sometimes he would pick up a scent when she came in late and hurried under the showers. Laura had never told him. Maybe she had waited for the right moment. He wondered if she wanted the person to know. That she would never return his phone calls anymore. Not because she had stopped loving him, but because she simply couldn’t. That she was no longer going to use her phone and call someone. Not even Derek, no matter how often he would dial her number, her voice telling him to leave a message only if it was important.

Derek suddenly noticed, he had never replied to her last message.

Laura’s recorded notice was cheerful as ever and a sad smiled tucked on his lips. He waited for the beep, his thumb hovering over the disconnect button, as he let out a breath he had been holding for too long.

“Love you, too.”

He had never told her.

And he realized there was a lot he had never done, a lot he should have done. Simple things like making her breakfast or asking how her day was. His hands played with the phone after he ended the call, opening and closing it, locking and unlocking his display until he suddenly called his own voice mail.

The first message he played had Laura growling at him to call back or he’ll starve to death because she was not going again just because he was forgetful. Derek had left his phone at home back then, only a few weeks ago, and she had been out grocery shopping after work.

He deleted it.

The second and third were from work. He skipped them. The fourth was from Laura again, snapping at him for always turning his phone off. That she was going to be late, she had to work over time. Derek continued to listen to the messages about bills they still needed to pay and their neighboor dropping by and leaving a package. He heard her asking him to pick up the car from the garage, reciting a preposterously long grocery list for her birthday party, yelling and cursing at herself because she dropped the phone before the call was suddenly disconnected.

“I’m out with some friends,” she said in a hushed whisper, and he knew it was the last message on his answering machine. “There’s something left in the fridge. Just heat it up.” Someone was calling in the background and Laura stopped for a few seconds. “I’ll be late. Don’t worry,” she finished, then hung up.

This was the last time he would hear her voice, Derek realized, staring at the display for a brief moment.

Then he deleted the message.

He continued to watch over the graves, almost motionless except for his hands playing with the stone in his pocket.

Until he suddenly heard them.

 _Smelled_ them.

He squinted his eyes, snapping his head up.

Derek was running before he was aware of it, following the sounds, the scents. Two of them. One unmistakably the person from the night before. The other one, not the second he had picked up. New.

He wasn’t even sure what he was going to do with them, but his face was half transformed, his nose curling in anger as he barred his long teeth. Until he eventually spotted them.

Two teenage boys.

He watched them rummaging on the ground, his breath coming in short breaths. There was _no way_. It _was_ the scent. He was sure.

“I mean, I still want that gemstone back because it’s all I have left from my mother and my father would probably kill me if he ever found out, but otherwise I’m fine.”

Derek cocked his head, his hand reflexively reaching for the necklace in his pocket as he continued to observe them, trying to control his emotions. He had to calm down. This boy was his only lead. This was the one who could have killed Peter and Laura.

And at the same time he couldn’t.

He couldn’t have been able to move Peter around. He couldn’t have been able to swing something that severed a body in half let alone have enough power to actually follow through with it. Yet his scent was _there_ and he was searching for the moonstone. So he had been here in the forest. And he had dropped it. And it was so important he came back to look for it without a real chance of getting it back.

Because it was his mother’s.

Derek clutched the stone in his hand, pressing his lips together in a thin line, tightening his jaw.

Nothing in his life was ever easy.

* * *

Stiles was being followed. _Stalked_ , really.

He had a feeling something was going on after they had left the woods the day before. But when Stiles’ stress-level suddenly skyrocketed so high he feared he was going to faint the second someone dared to look at him, it was Jackson backing him against one of the lockers that triggered the change. Jackson’s hair had turned blue, so had some skin on his head and Stiles could hardly suppress the smirk that threatened to grow on his lips as he looked at the jock with played irritation, because that, _that right there_ was totally Stiles’ doing.

 _Blueish greenish hair_.

He freaking _loved_ it.

The boy had faked innocence when the asshole confronted him about the unwilling change in hair color, holding his hands up in defense, while Jackson poked at him with _dyed_ fingers. This was probably one of the best things that had happened to him. Jackson almost foaming from his mouth in his fury, yelling and snarling like Stiles had replaced him as captain of the Lacrosse team.

This called for a celebration. Maybe with a double cheese sandwich.

But anyway, so yeah, Stiles was being stalked.

By Derek fucking Hale.

And that was not a pleasant thing, nope, not at all.

And neither was Scott, for a fact, right next to him going on about Allison’s hair and Allison’s eyes and Allison’s lips in a dreamy voice like he had gone to Allison Lalaland for a vacation and was not planning to return anytime soon. Actually, Stiles had to snap his fingers in front of his face a few times to get his attention.

“One more word about Allison and I swear, I’ll stab myself with my pen,” he threatened. “And it will not be pretty. There will be blood. Lots of it.”

“You don’t understand, Stiles,” Scott whined. “It was like destiny.”

“I wouldn’t call her running over a dog with a car destiny, but hey, whatever works for you.”

“She was so scared and cute. She was really worried. Stiles. She was _worried_ about the poor dog! And when she looked at me and I brushed her whimper off, it was like I heard music. I _swear_ , James Vincent McMorrow was singing for us!”

“You sure it wasn’t just the radio?”

Scott didn’t even listen to him as he drifted off again and Stiles rolled his eyes, knowing full well he was back in Allison dreamland. “And she was wearing _my_ shirt.” His mouth was slightly open in awe, probably watching an invisible divine being. “I was so glad I still had a spare around because there’s always the possibility that some dog throws up on you. Or bleeds on you. Or stuff like that.”

“Wouldn’t it have been better if you forgot your spare?”

“Why?” Scott frowned.

“Because then she had been naked?” Stiles asked, rolling his head back so that he could see the world from upside down and maybe that would make enduring his best friend a little easier.

Scott choked on his own spit, probably visualizing his suggestion. “Don’t do that to me,” the brunette boy coughed and Stiles smirked.

“Did you ask her out?”

“Out?”

“Yeah, like for the party at Lydia’s today?”

Scott remained silent so Stiles looked up.

“ _Dude_ , you should do that _before_ eliminations, you know?” Scott blinked. And Stiles groaned. “Today? On the field? Open for all? She’ll see you _play_?”

Scott’s eyes widened in panic as he eventually caught on.

“You have an hour.” He could barely finish the sentence when his friend suddenly jumped up and left the library in a record dash Stiles had never seen him perform before. He raised one eyebrow but then just shook his head, returned his attention back to whatever it was he had been doing.

In fact, he didn’t even know what he was doing, just that they had been sitting here, Stiles with a big book in his hands about – he looked at the cover, squinting at the foreign symbols that looked slightly Russian-ish – well, about _something_. However, from where he sat, he had a good look at the parking lot and the main entrance to the school building, but he couldn’t spot a person in the trees looking like a looming big shadow so he wasn’t sure if Derek was really somewhere around or had already left or maybe was just better at hiding his murderous intent than he would have given him credit for. Then again, Stiles had chosen to sit somewhere in the far back corner where no one could approach him from any kind of angle without him noticing.

Paranoia for the world.

Appositely, too, because he didn’t know what Derek Hale’s plan was.

But he was pretty sure that the guy was connecting him to the murder of the woman and the man and that was just insulting, because only half of that was caused by him, so _please_.

It didn’t take him long to figure the relationships out, though. That the woman had probably been Derek’s sister, Laura, the only other person to have survived the fire next to Derek and his crippled uncle. And who would have _guessed_ that said uncle was now a missing person case, which made him believe that the Alpha that had attacked him, however possible, had been Peter Hale. But Stiles didn’t have much information on that yet, because he was being _stalked_ and he wasn’t allowed to do stuff that might attract his stalker’s attention, like, well, sneaking into the police station to copy some files.

If he could, he would have been in there, getting the statements from the hospital staff and maybe stole the detailed report about the Hale fire on his way out as well. Maybe he should just try to get some information out of Melissa. But she was mostly working night shifts because they were better paid and damn you, _Derek Hale_ , for making things difficult now.

The hunter wasn’t even a _hundred percent_ sure that the guy _was_ indeed a werewolf, even though his gut told him so. He knew for a fact that the Hale pack were humans and werewolves living together which was why the Hale fire, though officially declared as an unfortunate accident, was kind of infamous among the Hunter circle.

Or so he had heard.

Word on the street was, that it had been done by a hunter. Well, not exactly _street_. Chat room. Because Hunters evidently had discovered the internet and thought it would be a grand idea to share each others stories in an outdoor activity forum with a subgroup talking about wolf hunting, gossiping about their latest haul like the bored housewives in his neighborhood.

The first time he had come across the site he had just rolled his eyes. The URL had the name _wolfhunter_ for Christ sake. It was so _obvious_ he didn’t even think that it actually _could_ be a site for werewolf hunting. Nevertheless, Stiles clicked the link because he was doing research on real wolves anyway.

Turned out it was _the_ spot for Hunters, using roundabout ways of describing their hunt and techniques. It didn’t even take him an hour to break their code, which was a password leading to a hidden chat room. But he worried that if _he_ , more or less an outsider, could find his way there, werewolves could too, so he never really participated, just monitored the chats. No one bothered him so he assumed that was okay.

However he didn’t learn much he could use. He knew about hunting and killing. It was all his grandfather had taught him. That werewolves were vicious man-hunting beasts, disguising as humans to infiltrate and kill. That they were smart and played with your conscience if you let your guard down. That they weren’t like the tales. That one couldn’t trust them. That they would use the first chance they got to kill you.

Yet…

Stiles played with the eraser in his hand, turning it around between his fingers as he watched it without actually looking at it.

It had taken him years to find out that his grandfather wasn’t telling him the truth. That there were werewolves who didn’t kill even if they had the chance. That there were whole packs living together, who had never attacked a human being before. So he had made up his own rules, bending the code to his interpretation, something he could work with.

He was a hunter not a _murderer_. He wasn’t going to stoop down to even lower levels, even if he had trouble connecting what he had been taught with what he had experienced. And he remembered her shivering form as she held the cub up to him in surrender, begging him to keep it save, to take care, to let it live, to not let it suffer because its mother was a monster.

Stiles threw the eraser on the desk in annoyance, watched it bouncing off.

The Alpha had been in _his territory_. He had _attacked_ Stiles and that was all the reason he had needed back then. Proof that the man had been a danger and that it was his job to kill him. He was at least sure of _that_. Even if he wasn’t sure about everything else going on. What with the sudden appearances of axe murdering bitches and werewolves killing each other and a potential werewolf stalking him.

Things used to be easy.

When he hadn’t tried to look behind what was going on. When he wasn’t carefully listening to every lie and every contradiction in his grandfather’s words. When he could blissfully pretend that killing werewolves was a sport, like the old geezer had made it out to be. When he was happy that he was praised, and when his aunt looked at him with soft eyes hiding a spark of playful wickedness.

Now it was just confusing, trying to get behind a world of mysteries, to distinguish myth from truth and facts from lies. It had become a blurry line in the last year. And the chat room couldn’t help him with stuff like moral conscience or social behavior. However, it was still a good source of some intel. He had learned about the Hale fire that way. It just came up in one of the conversations and there was mentioning about a hunter who may or may not have been involved with ‘burning down a house somewhere in a town called “Bacon Hills” or something like that’. And not just _any_ hunter but one of _the_ hunter family. The definite article even distastefully written in bold, italic and underlined for emphasize which led Stiles to the conclusion that this ominous family must be the master preeminent in the field of… wolf hunting. Apparently, it was even some kind of honor to marry into that family. He had done some research after, mostly about the family, but came up empty. Which was probably a good thing because it meant they were smart and not broadcasting strategies or locations online.

He wondered if his grandfather knew about them. If he would tell him if he did. Maybe he should call him. Send him a message. Let him know that there’s a maybe werewolf at his throat. But he didn’t want to deal with the old man on top of the things going on right now. Maybe his aunt was a better option. Actually, she was kind of cool and more talkative than her father, but she was somewhere half across the country without reception if he remembered correctly. He would just drop her a message and see if it ever reached her. Most likely not.

Stiles put his hands on the table, bedding his head on them with a tired groan while his leg wobbled on the ground.

The only reassurance he had left was that _if_ Derek Hale was a werewolf, he wouldn’t be able to enter Stiles’ home. Or Scott’s for that matter. Because he had made sure to turn them into an invincible fortress for _every_ kind of supernatural being. He had used every spell and organic material he could find to keep them save, the houses impregnable. His mother’s greenhouse was completely surrounded by a fence of Tasmanian oak, his working room was soundproof. Something that had cost him a small fortune and it had not been easy to explain the construction workers entering and leaving the house. He had settled on a small lie, like, someone needed a hobby room so why the fuck not? Everyone needed a little privacy in their lives, and if it was only to sing tragic love songs with all their might and _knowing_ nobody could hear their pathetic attempts at hitting high notes.

And then there had been the runes his mother had left on the fence around the house or at the entrances. When they had started to fade, he had painted them over. Back then he didn’t know what they meant until he found her books. And there were so many symbols it had taken him weeks to decipher each and every one of them, all written in a code and writing system Stiles had never seen before. When he had finally found out the meaning of the symbols the words didn’t even make any sense because they had been encrypted _as well_.

His mother had been one hell of a devious secret keeper.

Well, she had been a Hunter herself so it shouldn’t surprise him. And her father was that creepy old bastard that kept running off on Stiles, visiting once a year. He would probably feel all fuzzy warm inside knowing that the man cared enough to check on him annually, if it wasn’t for the fact the he was a militant, cold-hearted, backstabbing, lying snake, that abducted Stiles randomly for some strange mission after another and making him kill supernaturals all over the place. He could have really been content in life without knowing what an Aswang or a Skin-walker was. The only thing that really surprised him was that he had yet to see a dragon. He had met _Sirens_ , he thought he was ready for some dragon action. However, his grandfather had yet to illuminate him whether they were real or not. Not that they had a bestiary or anything like that… which they had. Just not for _Stiles_.

“She said yes,” Scott yelled from the door as he slithered back into the library. “Can you believe it?”

Several students looked up at the outburst, some of them scowling and Scott stopped dead, moderately strolling along the aisles with a sheepish grin on his face. However, as soon as he hastily sat down opposite Stiles he broke out into a big smile again.

“That a date?” Stiles asked, rolling a pencil between his fingers.

“I think it is. Oh my God it is, isn’t it?”

Stiles frowned at him. “How do you even manage?”

Oh well, he should probably be excited, seeing as Scott was finally getting some action. A lack thereof was probably Stiles’ fault anyway.

“She didn’t even hesitate!”

“Way to go, man,” he said, smiling at Scott and clapping him on the shoulder.

* * *

The party was in full swing. Scott and Allison had disappeared somewhere to the pool and Stiles had stayed back, giving them a little space to be, not exactly alone but at least together. He had spotted Lydia making out with Jackson around that area anyway, so yeah, no need to go there at all. Like he needed to see that.

Lacrosse elimination had been bad, and the bruises were enough of a reminder. He didn’t need Jackson smirking at him like the asshole he was to rub it into his face as well. Stiles ran his hand over his elbow, abrasions clearly visible before he pulled his sleeves back down. They had left Scott thankfully alone during his elimination run. He didn’t make first line, but he wasn’t embarrassing himself on the field so that was probably a good thing. Especially considering that Allison was watching him from the bleachers, mumbling ‘fight fight’ under her breath. Stiles had turned around and grinned at her in appreciation and she answered with a powerful shout at Scott when he got the ball that scared the shit out of Stiles.

He had been in the second elimination though.

Not so lucky.

Jackson had insisted on playing again and who was Coach Finstock to deny the captain showing some fighting spirit even to people who were completely beneath him? Which, rude. Thanks a lot for the vote of confidence, _Coach_.

It felt like the other players had ganged up on him. More than usual. Looking at Jackson and the glimpse of blue it wasn’t difficult to get behind the reason, but Stiles was completely convinced it had been totally worth it, no matter the broken bones he would get. His reflexes were good though, so he could avoid a few of the sticks accidentally aimed between his legs, which probably pissed them of even more. Stiles had just looked at Jackson, lifting his chin in mock challenge, perky smile on his lips.

And yeah, Stiles should really learn not to do stuff like that.

Some sense of self-preservation wasn’t entirely bad.

Because the next things he could remember, were two guys who crashed right into him at the same time, throwing him to the ground. He blacked out for a couple of seconds. Enough for everything around him to get really messy. When he came back, Scott was held back on the arms by some teammates and Jackson started to spot a real nice bruise.

If Stiles hadn’t been so weak in the bones he would have probably thrown his friend a thumbs up for getting back at that asshole, but instead he decided that being sprawled on the floor was a much nicer feeling.

Yes, it was.

Now he regretted ever getting up again, because his back really hurt. But then it wasn’t like he would let some pain get into his way of some maybe-action. So he roamed the house and front garden, standing close to a couple of people as if he belonged. Danny greeted him on his way to the backyard and that was nice. But that was just Danny being Danny. _Nice_. Even to Stiles. Considering that the guy’s best friend was a prick like Jackson did nothing to taint his reputation.

Again, Stiles wondered what they kept seeing in Jackson Whittemore.

Scott didn’t show up again and Stiles was not going to seek them out and maybe prevent _him_ from getting something out of all his trouble. As a bro he would just pretend they both got lucky. That’s what bros were for. He knew because he had the Bro Code somewhere in his room. Stiles did see them once though, dancing close together, Allison smiling, whispering in Scott’s ear. They looked good together, cute even, happy.

He was glad for Scott.

Part of him wasn’t.

A very tiny part he stomped on and flipped off because that part was a total douche and could go fuck itself, Stiles decided, turning away from the two lovebirds to find his own sultry happiness.

Yes, he was going to get some. Totally. Hopefully with a cute girl. Maybe get a couple kisses out of it and some fumbling. Preferably with her sober and knowing what was going on. Not that he had to actually worry about stuff like that. Since the universe was out to screw him.

Like, really.

Because he didn’t catch the eye of one single girl, _but_ there was a guy looking at him. It took Stiles a while to realize it and when he turned, letting his eyes roam over the dancing bodies to find out who’s gaze he had been feeling, tingling in the back of his neck, he found him. And the man just kept staring with a hint of a smile on his lips.

Stiles frowned and looked away, before he lifted his eyes again.

Dude was still watching him.

And it was kind of… flattering actually.

He was older, not exactly a teen which made him wonder what he was doing at the party. For a short horrifying moment Stiles thought it was a child molester, which was a little damaging to his ego. So he changed his opinion to big brother of someone here at the party who was making sure that everything stayed PG.

Yep, much better.

Just not really.

Because it still made him a little nervous.

His thumb brushed over the can in his hand, tracing the drops of water, contemplating what to do. That was the first time _ever_ in his life that someone else besides Scott and family had shown any interest in him, be it friendly or otherwise. Therefore it was completely acceptable to think about this just for a second, okay? It was a little bit unsettling, yep, but that was probably because he wasn’t used to _attention_. Not the good kind, anyway.

Screw this, he finally decided, turning around to approach the guy, who… was gone. Stiles let out a stream of profanities under his breath, scolding himself for getting in his own way. It wasn’t like he would have gone and offered himself to the dude like some virgin sacrifice but _talking_ with someone other than Scott would have been nice for a change. Getting talked _to_ not at or by would have been enough.

But noooo.

Screw you brain, _screw you_.

“Dude, we are leaving,” Scott suddenly said from his right and Stiles puckered his lips at his own idiocy before he turned his attention to his best friend, who was holding Allison’s hand. Stiles pretended like he didn’t notice. The girl smiled at him. It was honestly, genuinely, tooth rotting, diabetes-inducing cute to see them together.

“Yeah, me too,” Stiles replied, his eyes drifting back to where the guy had been. “Nothing interesting going on anyway.”

Scott hesitated. “You going home?”

“Why? You wanna borrow my room?” he joked, brushing their shoulders together with raised eyebrows.

Scott frowned, then blushed, before he vehemently shook his head as his eyes shifted to Allison. “ _No_ , just, you know, you can come over whenever, you know that?”

“Sure know that,” Stiles replied slowly. “Got the keys,” he added, jiggling them in front of his friend.

“Good.”

They said their good nights at the cars. The lights were out when he arrived home. His father’s car wasn’t parked in the driveway, which only meant that he was working late again. It had been a while since he had actually seen him in person and not only heard from him via messages on his phone.

Stiles sighed and threw his backpack in the hallway, before he paused and picked it up again. He waddled into the kitchen, opening the fridge.

It was almost empty.

He took one of the double cheese sandwiches that were wrapped in foil, gobbled it down with some milk as he sat at the counter, getting pen and paper out of his bag. He wrote milk on it, underlining it with two lines, because, yes, he loved milk. No reason to be ashamed or anything. Then he added cheese. And fruits and vegetables. Lots of them. Stiles justified his vindictive attempt at diet as compensation for the years his father had been living solely on alcohol and coffee.

When he finished, he jammed the grocery list in the front of his bag and headed upstairs into the bathroom, throwing his backpack against the closed door to his room before he pulled his shirt over his head, looking at himself in the mirror, turning around to get a better view of his back and shoulder.

The wound had started to heal. An itching that told him it was getting better. Strangely Stiles didn’t actually _feel_ it getting better. It looked better, but the pain never subsided. He was still extremely aware of every movement when lifting his arm or stretching his back but maybe it just took it’s time. His eyes trailed down and he furrowed his brow when he noticed the yellowing spot on his belly, another on the hip.

Probably from Lacrosse, he suspected, not exactly surprised. They had gotten him good.

Stiles opened the door to his room and kicked the bag in the general direction of the desk before his eyes flickered to the trash can. Maybe he should get the HD Collection and The Origins back out. Even if he hated himself for it, he would probably buy them again anyway if he _did_ throw the games away just to have his Silent Hill collection complete. Stiles turned to hit the switch but before he could reach it he caught a tiny noise somewhere from his right. And before he could even react he was violently shoved against the door, air pushed out of his lungs with a hard gasp as the door banged shut under his weight and his head crashed awkwardly against the wood.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hissed, his mind going numb for a short moment, as his hands blindly grabbed for something to hold on. They eventually rested on the hand fisted into his shirt, that was pressing on his sternum as if trying to break it. Then he opened his eyes, adjusting to the sudden and unwanted brightness when the intruder turned the light on.

“Shit,” he breathed, trying to ignore the throbbing in the back of his head. “I think you cracked my skull.”

“Who are you?” Derek Hale – because _who else_ could it be? – asked without any form of introduction, blatantly ignoring his words and pushing him harder against the door – if that was even possible.

“Wow, _Jesus_ , are you trying to break my bones?” he asked, just to irritate that son of a bitch, because he was pissed at the fact that said son of a bitch was _in his room_ , _threatening him_ instead of ten feet away from their backyard like he _was supposed to be_.

Oh, the semi-hunter was _good_ at what he did. Incredibly _good_ so why was that maybe-werewolf in his house? _Unless_ he wasn’t a werewolf which was _not likely_ because he possessed the strength of one and the way he had Stiles pushed up on the door, feet narrowly above the ground probably for effect reasons only did nothing to convince him of anything else.

And there was only _one_ reason why he was here now.

Because he wanted answers.

But Stiles was not going to give him any.

“Who. Are. You?” The man repeated like Stiles was a retard, lifted him slightly off the door just to push him back against it for emphasis.

Which, pressure, just too much fucking pressure.

Stiles’ face twisted in pain before he looked down at the man with wide eyes, his lips slightly parted. “Scary Eyebrow-dude!” he suddenly pointed out and said eyebrows shot up, in surprise or annoyance. No, definitely surprise because annoyance somehow implied impending death and he would very much like to forgo that.

“Didn’t mean to offend! They are totally sexy, don’t worry!” Stiles tried to smooth the encounter. “They emphasize your serial killer charm quite nicely,” he continued because flattering was always the right choice, right?

The dark-haired man growled.

Or nope, not at all.

“Fuck, dude, don’t kill me!” Now Stiles tried to get away from the maniac, which was kind of impossible in their current position, so all his wiggling and twisting was rather counter-productive and just made him hit his head against the door. _Again_.

“Fuck, that hurts,” he complained with a whimper, one hand finding its way up to the probably soon bruised skin, trying to soothe it. Like he didn’t have enough bruises from Lacrosse already, now there was an attractive but creepy guy trying to beat the shit out of him.

Life was a bitch.

The first time a hot person willingly pressed himself against Stiles and it was because they evidently wanted to kill him, which yeah, kind of summed up his whole fucked up life.

This wasn’t even funny anymore.

“What are you doing here?” Stiles snarled, changing his approach because none-syllable grunting was not helping at all. And nooo, he wasn’t the least bit intimidated by the menacing glare thrown at him. Well, externally, mind you. Internally he just wanted to hide in a corner, curl into a ball and pretend he was invisible. “How did you even get in here? What do you _want_ from me?” He kept throwing questions at the other, maybe to distract him? Would that distract him? Hopefully it did.

“Shut up,” the man barked and Stiles shut his mouth, teeth clanking against each other.

Apparently not.

“I’ll ask you one last time: Who. Are. You? _What_ are you?”


	3. Chapter 3

Derek had followed the boy back home after their encounter in the woods, watched him from the shadows of the trees, listening in to him talking to himself while browsing the internet or playing video games or occasionally doing both at the same time.

He followed him to school, watching him greet the floppy haired boy he had with him the other day. Scott. Scott and Stiles. Names rolling off other people’s tongues like they belonged to each other. Both sticking together like they were the only two people in a secluded world. It frustrated him how much that reminded him of Laura and himself.

The boy was exceptionally smart, yet a jittery mess, sarcasm dripping from his words when he was back mouthing to his classmates, chin held high when he was standing his own against the players on the Lacrosse team. A loudmouth, probably too clever for his own good, but all kinds of awkward. Not particularly strong, or fast, but with some quick reflexes.

Regarding what Derek was looking for, there was absolutely _nothing_ remarkably unusual about the kid. Except for the fact that he was probably crazy. But he had established that almost an hour into his observations, when he had noticed him dancing and singing to ‘Call Me Maybe’ in an unabashedly loud voice that probably even his neighbors could hear. Derek had actually tuned out and waited until his rendition of some Spice Girls song had ended somewhere half an hour later. The only time he hadn’t trailed Stiles was in the morning, when the police suddenly pulled him in for questioning and trespassing, but he had been out in under an hour. Not enough time for the boy to actually do something suspicious, let alone in school.

Actually, Derek had been about to resign himself to the fact that the boy was just that: a bored teenager with crappy taste in music who was at the wrong place at the wrong time.

If it weren’t for the house.

The withered fence around the backyard had been made from birch tree but it was painted all over with runes. For a second Derek had assumed he would hit against an invisible barrier in his attempt to open the gate, but when his hand touched the handle nothing happened.

He furrowed his brow.

His knowledge about runes was almost non-existent, never bothered to learn about them when he still had the chance but lost it together with his uncle and brother in the fire. They would know. They always knew long before others had figured something out. Maybe it wasn’t even runes. Maybe it had just been some symbol someone painted on for whatever reason. When he let himself into the backyard it was the greenhouse with a small adjacent gardening area surrounded by another fence that caught his attention.

Wolfsbane.

His eyes narrowed when he breached the few feet, and then his body instinctively stopped. The wood was light in color, brittle, slight moss-grown, not even varnished. There was not much guessing going on about why it was natural. He still verified, trying to touch it but was pushed back, a tingle of electrified pain floating through his fingertips.

Derek’s eyes flickered up to the unlit windows.

The boy was out for a party. He had listened in on him giving himself a pep talk about getting himself a girl, preferably a red-haired genius goddess.

Lydia.

Derek had spent the day learning about the people the boy associated with. Or tried to associate with. It had been almost painful watching him. Pathetic even. It made Derek _again_ come so very close to disregarding his own gut feeling and deciding that this boy was in no way linked to anything going on. Because it had to be simply _impossible_.

His eyes drifted further down to the back door. The same symbols drawn on the frame as on the backyard fence and some of the windows. It looked like a druid was living here. Not a hunter. And someone was taking very good care of the flowers. He had never heard of a hunter as a druid, growing Wolfsbane and whatever else was in that greenhouse. Maybe the boy was a druid out to kill werewolves?

Peter’s death had been because of wolfsbane bullets, the distinct poison marks following the blood vessels from the first wound down to the heart, from the second back around to everywhere. It had found its way even after his uncle had died, breath long stilled and heart no longer beating. The boy could have easily shot Peter. He didn’t need strength or agility to do that. However it would still leave the question _how_ he had gotten Peter into the forest in the first place. Whether he had walked him? Brought him in a wheelchair? But there had been no tire tracks, not even much of footprints but they could have vanished because of the muddy soil and the rain, hidden by leaves.

Yet _Laura_ was a different matter altogether.

The boy would have to have the element of surprise to take her down. He had to bring a heavy weapon, sharp, lethal and swing it at her. But Laura would avoid it easily. She probably wouldn’t attack, though. His sister wasn’t big on confrontations. Instead her instincts would make her run away, get away from the danger as fast and as far as she could.

But she didn’t.

Derek had assumed coming to this house would answer some questions.

Instead it prompted more.

The backdoor opened with an almost inaudible creak and his feet crossed the threshold without resistance. His fingers brushed over the red ink on the wood. Someone had put a lot of effort into keeping _something_ out. Derek wasn’t sure what it was, but it obviously wasn’t werewolves. Or maybe the runes just didn’t work.

When he entered the kitchen there was a door to his right, **stay out I mean it stiles** in bold letters written on it. When he tried to push the handle down there was another shock of electricity. Derek was sure. There had to be someone in this house who knew what they were doing. But the house felt empty and he had only seen the boy so far. The living room was surprisingly clean, papers sprawled on the coffee table, a stack of folded laundry on the couch. The rest of the house was the same. Completely normal and unsuspicious. But with _lots_ of runes, symbols, Korean letters, whatever on it.

Derek went upstairs, entering the room he knew was the boy’s.

It was messy and spoke of personality, contrary to the rest he had seen. Baseball statues on the shelves, posters on the wall. An angel flipping him off. Books and notebooks, clothes sprawled on the floor, photos, paintings, more books, CDs and DVDs, board games. Skulls. A few of them. Which made Derek question the state of mind of the teenager. Not that he hadn’t already done that watching him the night before, doing nothing but spinning in his chair for a few minutes while chewing on a pencil. Derek lifted a frame up to look at a photo, a vaguely familiar woman with a warm smile in the front and a little boy in a Superman costume behind her, hands thrown up with a wide grin on his face, paint on his fingers and his clothes. Probably Stiles and his mother. Derek put the picture back.

It was a typical teenage bedroom.

Nothing noticeable. Nothing in the rest of the house, either. But Derek didn’t expect anything. He already presumed that what he was looking for, and what would probably answer his questions had to be in the room downstairs.

He looked up when he heard the engine of a car killed in the driveway, a second later the front door opening. Derek didn’t move an inch, listening to the steps downstairs, a silent humming and a pen scratching on paper. He waited patiently, until the boy went upstairs, into the bathroom and eventually in his own room.

The werewolf had him pinned against the door before he was even sure what he was about to do. He hadn’t anticipated the boys return so soon but he didn’t mind the disturbance. Derek’s eyes were latched unto Stiles’ face as he tried to regain his senses and a chill ran down his spine, making his body tense in apprehension and fingers dig harder into the shirt.

He wasn’t sure about the reason, but something about Stiles made him very uncomfortable and restless and left him irritated and annoyed.

Something was wrong with this boy.

And Derek couldn’t figure out what.

His patience was running thin, too. Even thinner when Stiles did nothing but evade his questions with obvious intent instead of giving simple answers. Derek could feel the rage slowly building in his stomach. And he needed it. The control. The anger. To not just get it over and be done with it.

Killing a human would just draw the attention of Hunters. Killing a hunter would start a blood feud he wasn’t willing to start. Especially not alone.

“I’ll ask you one last time: Who. Are. You? _What_ are you?”

“Excuse _me_?” the boy growled back, watching him through wide eyes. “You come into _my_ home and have the guts to ask me who _I_ am? _What_ I am? I’m not your fucking punching bag for sure, you asshole.” Derek slammed his shoulders against the door again and the boy gasped for air. “The better question is: Who are _you_?” he bit out after catching his breath.

Defiant little bastard.

“You know who I am,” Derek snarled, because he had heard him. Using his name like it was common knowledge. Beacon Hills had always been a small town but he never expected someone to recognize him after years of absence.

“I think a five second encounter with you glaring like you wanted to tear us apart is not classically considered an _introduction_.” Derek narrowed his eyes. “And, you know, before I forget, _thanks_. For the necklace. Not that I think you still deserve it, though.” Derek continued to watch him, to listen to his heartbeat, hammering in his chest, irregular, wild and loud, yet his eyes firmly answering Derek’s gaze in anxious challenge. “Look,” the boy started again after a moment of silence. “If this is about me trespassing on your property I’m sorry, okay?” Derek had to bite his cheek to refrain from flinching at the last words, stirring something he wanted to forget for the time being. Because the house was county property now. And Derek himself had only found out in the morning, when he was brought in for questioning by some deputies who spotted his car on the grounds. He wasn’t supposed to be there, they told him. Derek told them it was his land. They proved him wrong.

“No, you know what?” Stiles interrupted his thoughts, fighting against his grip now in feeble attempts. “I’m not sorry. How would I know that someone decided to come back the second a murder happens on the grounds?” There was an abrupt pause. Then the amber eyes suddenly widened in astonished exposure. “Oh. My. _God_. Did _you_ kill her?”

“Shut up,” Derek bit, his last string of patience snapping. “I’m going to ask you questions. And you’re going to answer them. Slowly. Or I _will_ hurt you.”

“You’re already hurting me,” the boy pointed out. Derek bumped him against the door again in retaliation. “That’s _it_. I hereby revoke any mental ‘thank you’s I’ve ever sent your way. You don’t _deserve_ them at all.”

Derek just threw an annoyed glance to the side, before he rolled his eyes. “Your name?”

“Stiles Stilinski.”

“Lie.”

“Dude, I’m _not_ going to tell you my real name, no matter _what_ you threaten to do.”

Derek looked him in the eyes, which stared back at him in deliberate provocation. He contemplated hitting Stiles’ head against the door again but assumed it would probably do even more damage to the boy’s brain. It was a test question anyway, to figure out his natural reaction to truth and lies.

“Age?”

“Sixteen.”

Truth.

“Are you a hunter?” His voice was steady, slow and he was listening very close to the heartbeat now, which skipped just for a second.

“No,” the boy answered, and Derek looked up to catch his confused gaze. “I prefer chaotic neutral wizard most of the time.” Now it was Derek’s turn to twist his face in nondescript puzzlement. “And they are usually called rangers. Though it’s fine if you are new to this. I can teach you if you want. That is, if you let me down because this really starts to hurt.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What am _I—oh_! You mean like a _real_ hunter? Culling prey like deer? Which, yuck, disgusting. _No._ Though my neighbor, creepy George, is all into pheasant shooting. If you need some tips I could introduce—”

“ _Are. You. A. Hunter_?”

“For God’s sake, _what_ are you talking about?”

Derek looked at the wide eyes, staring back at him in complete bewilderment and irritation. How detailed could he get, he asked himself. How much could he risk letting the boy know if he indeed had never heard about werewolves? The man had a feeling he didn’t want Stiles to know about it at all. Because he was probably going to be so much trouble.

“Why were you in the woods?” he not so casually changed the subject instead and the boy interrogatively squinted his eyes, but chose to answer the question.

“Looking for my necklace.”

Derek hardened his grip around the shirt, pulling him close now. “Before that.”

Stiles licked his lips, eyes darting around and Derek became acutely aware of his nervous habit, fingers trying to grab something, brushing against his leather jacket, pulling at it before they knew better and eventually ended up with a jeans chain. “I just heard about a corpse,” the boy replied slowly. “I was curious, is all. And I kinda regret it, okay? It wasn’t as awesome as I thought.”

Derek’s face twisted in anger, thinking about how that kid had thought it could be fun to look at a corpse. To look at Laura like she was some kind of entertainment.

“Did you kill her?”

“No! Of course not!” Stiles almost yelled.

Truth.

“What about the other one?”

It almost amused Derek at how wide Stiles’ eyes could get, his mouth hanging wide open and closing again. “Wait. Crazy axe woman is dead, _too_? Oh shit, I didn’t know!”

Derek furrowed his brows. “I meant the man.”

“There is _another_? I didn’t know, I swear. I saw the girl and axe woman. And the search party!”

There had only been three scents at the scene itself. Laura’s very faint, Peter’s and Stile’s stronger, newer. There was nothing else. Derek had checked. Twice. But the boy was telling the _truth_.

“Who is that axe woman?”

Stiles chewed on his lips. “Don’t know. I was running through the woods, when I bumped into her. I just wanted to get away and then she was suddenly wielding an axe at me. I wasn’t particularly inclined to ask her name after that.”

_Truth._

“Actually, that’s where we met, yesterday.” He furrowed his brows as if he was remembering something. “Where the symbol had been.”

“What symbol?”

The boy cocked his head. “On one of the trees. You didn’t see it?”

Derek couldn’t remember a symbol, not that he had watched out for anything besides the scents he had tried to capture. So the other one had been that woman with the axe. If there had been a woman with an axe. It seemed like the boy was telling him the truth but something was just _wrong_.

“What’s behind the door downstairs? With the keep out?”

“My father’s hobby room,” the boy replied.

“What’s in there?”

“I don’t know what he keeps in there and honestly, I don’t want to know. Why?”

_Truth._

Derek was getting frustrated. Nothing made any sense to him. Not the words, not the information he could gather from the different locations. Maybe Stiles’ sudden jumpiness could easily hide the truth? He had been calm before, the first seconds after their violent encounter which could probably be chalked of as initial shock. After that his heartbeat had been running a race.

“Lie to me,” he snarled and the boy looked at him apprehensively. “Do it.”

Stiles blinked.

“Just _lie_.”

“Uh…” the brunette started, looking around. “All Time Low sucks?”

“Not a question,” Derek growled, pushing him harder into the door.

“Geez, calm down, Cal Lightman.” He paused for a second, then looked Derek in the eye. “You know, I’m a very bad liar, so it’s not that easy for me. Especially under pressure”

“Lie,” Derek snarled.

“Why, thank you,” the boy breathed, relaxing against Derek’s body. “How can you tell anyway?”

He ignored the question. “Tell me about the symbols.”

“What symbols?”

“At your fence. Doors. Everywhere.”

Stiles furrowed his brow. “My mother painted them on years ago.”

“They look fresh.”

The boy shrugged. “Because I repainted them when they began to fade. Figured they meant something to my mother so I tried to keep them.”

Truth.

“What about the greenhouse?”

“Used to be my mother’s as well.”

“Who is taking care of the plants?”

“My father.”

“Where is your mother now?”

Stiles took a sharp breath in, before he looked away, voice emotionless calm. “Dead.”

“Since when?”

“Seven years.”

Derek stared at him, overwhelmed by the sudden grief oozing off the boy and he loosened his grip around the shirt, putting him down and backing away but eyes never leaving the lanky figure, eyes roaming his body from top to bottom and back, looking for any hints of escape intent, but Stiles just stood there, lost and defeated and nervous and unsteady.

“Can you open the door?” Derek asked, voice less threatening even while he was telling himself that the boy did in no way resemble Derek’s younger self.

Stiles looked at him quizzically.

“For the door downstairs.”

“You have seen the sign, right? Keep out Stiles? Not allowed in there? And well, I don’t have a key, anyway.”

“Just kick it in,” Derek snapped. As if a stupid key was going to hold him back from getting into that room.

“Do it yourself!” Stiles growled back now, not finished by far but Derek wasn’t going to argue. No. He just grabbed the boy by the neck and pushed him out of the room and down the stairs, Stiles letting out a stream of colorful curses only interrupted by some painful shouts when Derek intentionally let him bump against the wall or different objects.

“Open the door,” he repeated when they arrived in the kitchen.

“I _can’t_.”

“Throw yourself at it, _pick_ the lock if you have to.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “I’ll have you know, I’m not a criminal.”

“You’re lying,” Derek told him, because he was _lying_. Obviously so.

The boy huffed but didn’t reply. Instead he bent down, taking a look at the lock, before just rolling his eyes and pressing the handle down. The door opened without any resistance.

“It wasn’t even locked.” And Derek could hear the unspoken idiot at the end of the sentence. “You go in. I wait—oh, okay, I don’t wait.” Stiles stammered, when Derek pushed him into the room by the shoulder. The second Derek stood in the center he knew the room was sound proof, the only noises coming through the open door now.

There was a pool table, a TV with some DVDs stacked in the cupboard below it. Shelves filled with books. A faded couch, a desk with scratch marks, a work bench with some tools and a treadmill. A small open window facing to the backyard. Stiles clamped his hands over his eyes as he tried to not let them wander, probably because he had promised his father: But curiosity was still getting the better of him and Derek watched in aggravation as Stiles inconspicuously peeked through his fingers.

Derek sighed in annoyance but marched over to the only shut closet, half expecting to find weapons of various kinds in there. It was empty. So he roamed the shelves, but only found books about gardening, sport, some DIY of various handcrafts.

“If you happen to find any school girl hentais, please keep that knowledge to yourself.” Stiles suddenly said. Then paused for a second. “Unless it’s Kite or Bible Black because they are _iconic_ and we could totally watch them together if you are interested.”

Derek assumed he was better of not knowing what the boy was talking about, just continued his search through various files in boxes stuffed under the work bench. “You have never been in here?” he asked, because he could smell Stiles, even if it was faint, which could also come from the boy following him closely as Derek made his way through the room.

“Can’t claim that anymore thanks to a certain someone,” Stiles answered a few steps behind him, dropping all pretense of not looking around anymore and watching him flip through the files. “But before, no.”

“When was the last time your dad was in here?”

“He’s been busy with work a lot. Maybe a week? I don’t know. Haven’t seen him around much lately. With, you know,” his hand made a gesture that should probably tell him something, but did absolutely nothing. “He’s a deputy,” Stiles clarified, had probably noticed his lack of response. Derek stilled for a moment, then resumed his search. _Of course_ Stiles was the son of an undersheriff. _Of course_ Derek was just ransacking a police man’s home, leaving his finger prints all over the place. It still didn’t stop him from looking further, though. Because he needed to find something.

 

He found nothing.

“Why?” Derek growled, slamming the doors of the closet he had just looked at for a third time shut and Stiles flinched, looking at him.

“Why what?”

There was a door. Made of mountain ash wood. The room was sound proofed. There had to be something in here that was worth protecting. “What was here before it was your father’s hobby room?”

“Storeroom,” Stiles answered with a disinterested shrug. “Before that, my mother’s working room.”

Again his mother.

Like she was the answer to all of Derek’s questions. His mother’s runes. His mother’s greenhouse. His mother’s plants. His mother’s working room. His dead mother for seven years who has left fragments that were still seemingly haunting the house she used to live in with her family.

“ _What_ was your mother?”

“A housewife,” the boy replied. “Dude, I get the feeling you’re a little obsessed with my mother, which is kind of freaking me out right about _now_.”

Derek huffed, approaching the boy with a fast step, one hand wrapping around his wrist as he hauled him out of the room and the house.

“Hey, what? What are you doing?” Stiles yelled, stumbling over his own feet as he tried to keep up with Derek’s long purposeful strides.

“We’re going back to the preserve,” Derek explained in a clipped voice. “You will show me where you met that woman. You will show me that symbol. And you will tell me everything you remember.”

“What?” The boy yelped, fighting against his strong grip but Derek just ignored him. He was fed up with this situation. With all those contradictions. With nothing making sense like he was being played. Played by _a kid_. His car wasn’t parked far from the house, a few blocks down the street and he ignored the indignant yells behind him. Luckily so did everyone else who might have heard them.

He opened the door to the Camaro, throwing the boy on the passenger seat and activated the child safety lock. He was so not going to let him jump out of the car. Then he sat behind the steering wheel. It was suddenly suspiciously quiet next to him, so he looked over before starting the engine. Stiles’ eyes were wide as he took in the interior with slightly open lips, squirming on the seat, then turning around in the seat to look at the backseat.

“Is that, like reeeal leather?” he breathed almost in awe. “Now I know how Joker felt.”

Derek rolled his eyes and started the car. An abduction had probably never been this easy, he thought, his eyes drifting back to the brunette boy.

Or so god forsaken nerve-wrecking.

They eventually arrived at the preserve with Stiles babbling almost the whole drive through, his hands making wild gestures as he changed topics with a speed that nearly made Derek’s head spin. So he pulled the car over, once, for a few seconds, threatening to throw Stiles out and leave him on the road if he wouldn’t shut the fuck up, when Stiles pointed out that that kind of defeated the purpose of taking him along. Derek had growled in frustration, pulled him closer by his collar that started to loosen from all the manhandling, which Stiles felt the need to point out as well, and Derek told him, in no uncertain terms, that he would without hesitation, break every single bone in his body starting with the fingers.

The boy had stared at him, probably contemplating how serious the threat was, then just nodded and when Derek let him go slumped against his seat and kept quiet for the rest of the way.

“Don’t even think of running away,” Derek said as he opened the door to the passenger seat.

“Sure, because that would serve me _so_ well”, Stiles replied.

Derek just pushed him forward with an annoyed “Go”, ignoring the wince the boy tried to stifle.

“I hate this,” Stiles started instead, kicking leaves out of the way, hands stuffed into his pockets while he glared at the ground. “I have vowed to never come back here again. The woods are _scary_. Have you heard of the mountain lion attacks? _Mountain lions_. Attacking _humans_.”

Derek kept quiet.

Stiles huffed in annoyance. For a few blissful minutes they just walked through the forest, Stiles fiddling with the jeans chain when he suddenly decided that it had been too quiet.

“So… that girl,” the boy started, watching him out of the corner of his eyes. “Anyone you knew?”

He contemplated not answering. Because Derek was generally not very forthcoming with personal information. Especially not if he didn’t know who he was dealing with. He glanced at the boy walking next to him, ignoring his failed attempts at looking completely bored. Maybe the boy already knew and was just waiting for confirmation. If he was indeed the hunter who killed her, he must have known who she was. Because Laura wouldn’t ever shift unless under severe danger.

“My sister,” he eventually replied, trying with all his might to keep his facial expression neutral as he watched for any hints of satisfaction on the boy’s face.

But Stiles stopped abruptly to openly gape at him. “Dude, shit. I’m sorry.” Then his eyes immediately widened in horror. “Oh God! I’m sorry I accused you of killing her! No, fuck, _shit_. I’m sorry I said I wanted to see a corpse and that it wasn’t awesome! It was totally awesome! _Jesus_. No, I mean, _she_ was probably. Awesome, right? I mean, she looked hot. Fuck. No. Not hot in a necrophiliac sense. I’m not into corpses, _I swear_. When she was still alive and not cut in half—I mean— _oh God_ , make me _stop right now_!”

Derek growled at him.

“Yeah, that, yeah, okay.” The boy finished abashedly, his eyes still impossibly wide and mouth clenched into a thin line, purposefully shut to keep anymore words from spilling out. His fingers twisted around each other, then one hand wandered to the back of his head, a wince escaping him when he touched the skin there.

“Sorry,” he said in a quiet voice, when Derek turned around to continue walking. “I deserved that,” the brunette boy added quietly and the werewolf almost missed it. If Derek wasn’t trying to hate everything about that boy right now, he would have probably felt a little pang of guilt for handling him in such a rough manner, but it wasn’t like he didn’t deserve the treatment. Stiles knew how to pull strings and where to push buttons and he was completely at ease with letting other people know he could do more damage with his words if he wanted than he usually did.

“Hey,” Stiles started after another few minutes, out of the blue.

Derek ignored him.

“Soooo,” he continued anyway, because he apparently couldn’t shut up. “Since you kinda kidnapped me and it seems like we’re kinda stuck, maybe we could do this again?” The boy came to a sudden halt, making Derek stop with a hand to his shoulder that he removed the second the man looked at it. “My name’s Stiles Stilinski.” Derek refused to answer and Stiles rolled his eyes with an exasperated sigh. “Come on, make this official or something.”

“Derek Hale,” he replied with a growl because he was sure the boy wouldn’t stop bugging him until he did say it. Even though he felt foolish considering that both knew each others names, even if it was just from stalking and whatever reasons the other had. If Stiles were a hunter he would probably know his name, just like he would have known about Peter and Laura. But he could have remembered, because of the fire or because Beacon Hills had always been a quiet town.

“Not exactly nice to meet you, but I’ve had worse,” Stiles answered with a satisfied drawl. Derek replied with a dismissive grunt. Eventually, the boy kept silent for the rest of the walk, mouth-wise. His jumpiness making him almost inept in keeping quiet. He was always playing with something in his hands, making tiny noises, nervously looking around and probably unintentionally inching closer to Derek until they almost walked shoulder to shoulder. Which annoyed Derek. A lot. So he bumped their shoulders together, making Stiles trip over his own feet.

He didn’t smirk when the boy fell face down into the dirt with a yelp.

No, he did not.

Though he may have snorted in contempt. Stiles looked up to him from the ground, glaring as he tucked on his nose. Derek just lifted one eyebrow, shrugged and then moved on.

“I’ll so get you back for that,” he growled when he pushed himself up and followed Derek with unsteady steps, keeping a wider distance to the other man now until they reached their destination.

Sort of.

“And there it was,” Stiles threw his hands in the air as he paced up and down. “It was _there_. I saw it! You were over there and threatened us with your menace eyebrow power and all. How could you _miss_ it! It was a big red something.”

Derek looked at the boy, sniffing the air.

“That’s disturbing, just so you know,” Stiles pointed out but the man ignored him. Which was the only strategy when dealing with someone like him as Derek had the pleasure to find out during the drive and the walk through the forest.

The second scent had intensified, he realized, so she must have come back somewhere when Derek had been out following the boy or was brought in for questioning. Which annoyed him to a certain degree. If he had been at the Hale Mansion he would have picked up on her.

“Was it that tree?” Derek asked, pointing at the row of oak trees, where the scent was the strongest and pieces of bark had been scrapped off, streaks of resin glued to the parched trunk. It was dark but the full moon was illuminating the barren area enough to make it easy to see even for a human.

“That tree,” Stiles parroted, rolling his eyes. “Whichever of the four hundred trees are you talking about?”

Derek heaved a sigh, then put one hand on Stiles’ chest, pushing him back and eventually shoved him against the crooked trunk of the oak he meant in an offhanded way, not even bothering to react to the boy’s cry of protest. “That tree,” he said, lifting his eyebrows.

“Oh right _that_ one. Thanks for pointing it out. Asshole.” Stiles pointedly stared at Derek’s hand still resting on his chest, then wiggled around to take a look at the cracked bark, long fingers trailing over the wood as if they could help him identify lost traces of ink. Derek watched him, oddly fascinated with every confident stroke until he realized what Stiles was doing.

“You can draw it?”

The boy shook his head. “Nah, it’s more like connect the dots,” he replied. “Feels like I know this, though. I would have probably taken a picture if you hadn’t disturbed us.” His face turned partly in Derek’s direction but Stiles didn’t further comment on their encounter in the forest. “Looks like she tried to scrape most of it off. With a knife or something.”

“Maybe the axe?” Derek suggested in mockery, because he still couldn’t believe that a woman would run around with an axe. In the middle of the night. In the woods. During a search operation.

“I doubt that. I have that one in my jeep.”

“What?”

“I took it with me when I ran. Couldn’t risk her throwing that thing at me, y’know?”

“You should have told me.”

“Well _excuse me_ , who was dragging me around? With all the grunting and growling and commanding?” Derek just narrowed his eyes. And Stiles left his silence uncommented, instead he changed the subject back to where they had left of. “There were swirls, three of them. In different directions.”

Derek’s eyebrows shot up as Stiles redrew the first two lines and he didn’t need to see the last one to know what it meant. However he continued to circle it, the three tips of the swirls suddenly connected to the outer line.

“Doesn’t make sense to me,” Stiles said. “Maybe it’s just a practical joke? Which would be an asshole move, I tell you.”

“No,” he simply said and Stiles turned to him with a quizzical look on his face, before realization dawned on him.

Smart little bugger.

“You know what it means?”

“No,” Derek answered because it was the truth. The first half was what he knew about. The triskelion. About what it represents to him. But it had a lot of meanings, different for everyone else.

“It was more complex than that though,” Stiles offered with narrowed eyes, watching him intently, scrutinizing and Derek tried to hide the interest on his face. Which was probably pointless because the boy knew he was interested. In everything that had happened here. “There was another circle in the middle and the circle wasn’t spherical but intertwined with the whirls—” Then he took a sharp breath as his eyes slightly widened, his hands retracting from the tree as if they were burned. He had figured it out. He knew something Derek didn’t.

“But that’s all I can remember,” Stiles said, shrugging, baiting him, because Derek didn’t need to listen to his heartbeat to see that he was lying. The taunting smirk displayed on his lips was enough provocation. The boy knew he had the upper hand in this one and was completely at ease with playing it to his advantage.

“You have seen it before,” Derek stated.

Stiles just shrugged again. “Have I?”

“You don’t want to play games with me.”

“Now, don’t I?” Derek narrowed his eyes at the boy. “Seeing as you have been kind of an ass ever since we met, I’m not sure if I want to help you out. That is, if I _could_. Completely hypothetically speaking here.”

Derek was about to growl a reply, when he suddenly heard them, repressed breathing and almost silent footsteps, rustling of clothes and clicking of metal he had missed when he was arguing with Stiles.

Behind him.

“Run,” Derek whispered.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Jesus, you really can’t deal with your own medicine, can you?”

Derek hissed, and Stiles looked at him with brows drawn together in confusion before he understood that this wasn’t a joke or Derek just being angry, but that there was really something out there. And then he nodded, slowly. But it was too late. Derek had enough time to push Stiles out of the way, when the arrow hit the tree where the boys head had been, white light suddenly flashing, blinding Derek for a couple of seconds that were enough to drill a second arrow right through his arm. He howled in pain, the combination of screaming nerves and impact making him falter against the trunk, his vision still blurry but quickly refocusing. Out of the corner of his eyes he could make out a silhouette scrambling up. Stiles, from where he had stumbled when Derek had shoved him to the side, feet barely touching the ground when he started to dash away. But then the boy skidded to a shaky stop, took a deep breath, before he cursed, turned around and headed back to—

Derek’s eyes widened, his breath came in short harsh gasps and he turned his attention in the direction of the hunters. One of them lifted a crossbow, pointing at Stiles and following his steps. Derek felt hands grabbing at his shoulder, pulling on his jacket and shirt and sleeves with desperate urgency, a silent demand to get moving and run away. The crossbow stopped moving. “This doesn’t mean anything. You’re still an asshole,” the boy swore, finally waking Derek from his ache conducted numbness. And another arrow whistled through the air, barely missing both their heads. Stiles’ mouth fell open. And then he panicked, his heart beating like a jackhammer, but lips pressed together in determination.

“Alright, time to go,” Stiles whizzed, pulling on Derek’s arm, but the man just shoved him away, mind finally over the initial shock and actively processing and making his body move again.

“Go”, he growled, about to turn around and focus on the hunters. But Stiles only swallowed heavily, his eyes flickering to the arrow still in Derek’s arm, _shaking his head_. Another arrow hurtled, missing Stiles’ body, but instead going right through his jacket, momentum pinning him to the tree as the boy let out a surprised yelp. Derek’s eyes flashed red.

“Goddammit it, _Stiles_ ,” the teenager suddenly yelled, startling Derek for a second, glaring at the arrow with wide eyes. “What have you gotten yourself into _this time_?”

If Derek had the time he would have rolled his eyes at the outburst, but instead he concentrated on the hunters, hiding behind trees and bushes in shadows. The Hunters had stopped moving the second Stiles had been pinned to the trunk, probably satisfied in false certainty. Yet they knew that Derek was out there, that he was probably going to attack them, their eyes roaming the fog clouded grounds and trees, moon light making it easy to spot shadows. Derek was perched on a tree now, when he jumped down and flung the first one back by his clothes. He heard a sick thud when the man crashed against a tree, but he didn’t care. The second followed quickly after, the last one dropping the crossbow, instead getting a gun out in a fast practiced movement, but Derek ignored him, because Hunters never worked alone.

He hurried back to the boy’s side, tearing the shirt from the arrow and pushing him brutally against the shoulder to stifle all kind of protest beforehand. But Stiles just stood there, glaring up at him with scrutinizing eyes. Derek was having none of it. He wrapped his hand around Stiles’ wrist and pulled him along. Because who stopped in the middle of an ambush to argue about staying alive?

Stiles breathed harshly, but didn’t complain about the pace they were going at, didn’t fight against the grip until Derek slowed down, when he assumed they had enough distance to the remaining hunter.

“That’s it!” the boy gasped, hands on his knees as he was fighting for air and Derek halfway turned to him. “I quit being me! Because I’m _stupid_! I _hate_ myself!” The werewolf slightly shook his head in annoyance, a motion not lost by the boy. “And you!” Stiles snapped in his direction now. “You better keep me safe or I _will_ kill you with all I’ve got!”

“What would that be?” Derek asked, when he turned his attention on the arrow still stuck in his arm. He touched the long end, experimentally tugging as he barred his teeth and stalled his breath.

“Sarcasm,” Stiles growled back. “A whole—” His voice faltered when he sharply looked up, probably at the gasp that escaped Derek’s throat as he finally pulled the arrow out of his arm, his face scrunched in pain. It took him about a second to get himself together again, his fingers touching the open wound partly visible through the jacket. Derek knew there had been something at the tip of the arrow besides silver, most likely wolfsbane and part of the poison was still in his body and blood system and preventing the wound from closing instantly. But it would heal. It would just take some time.

“—lot of it,” Stiles finished and Derek looked at him, trying to remember what the beginning of that sentence had been. The boy nervously licked his lips, took a step forward. “Let me…” he started, his hand reaching out to Derek, who backed away, sceptically eyeing the sixteen-year old. “I just want to help you.”

“You don’t need to.”

“Dude, you’ll bleed to death.”

“No, I won’t.”

Stiles threw his hands up in annoyance. “Yeah, I didn’t miss how you all Superman like jumped on a tree, or threw two grown up men around like they were nothing or, I don’t know, _pulled that thing out of your arm just now_ , which, by the way, probably made this worse, just for your information. But that doesn’t mean that you’re Superman. You’ll bleed. A lot. So let me help you.”

It shouldn’t surprise Derek. That Stiles was offering to help. Of course a human would assume that the wound was somewhat serious, that Derek needed medical attention rather now than later, that he should go to the hospital for stitches or whatever humans usually did in these situations. But something was very, very off. Derek couldn’t shake that feeling off no matter what and it frustrated him that he couldn’t put his finger on what exactly was so wrong about Stiles.

“Listen dude—”

Derek stopped any argument that certainly was going to break out by just sitting down on the ground, cross-legged. Then he watched with a frown when Stiles knelt down in front of him, his eyes flickering up to Derek’s before looking away, locking on the blood seeping into his leather jacket, coloring the white shirt underneath a crimson red. “You know, stuff with barbed hooks isn’t _supposed_ to get pulled out. You have them, you know?” The boy made an awkward motion, probably showing him how to push an arrow through his arm. Derek ignored it, just pulled his arm out of the jacket.

Stiles took in a sharp breath. “Man, this doesn’t look good. Was there poison on that thing? I don’t think it’s supposed do that.”

Derek watched the black rim around the entry wound and just shrugged. He had seen worse. “Probably.”

“I… you know…” The boy started and Derek looked at him with a frown. “Just, oh God, fuck, no. This is so not happening. I’m not going to do _that_.”

Eloquent as ever. And making so much sense. Derek was feeling irritated just looking at the boy gnawing on the inside of his cheek, short from panicking, biting his lips, eyes darting around as if he was looking for any help. Then his mouth opened. “I hate you,” the boy declared, putting both hands onto Derek’s arm and suddenly darting forward.

“What?” Derek growled in confusion, struggling to put his hand against the others shoulder in time to keep him an arm’s length away.

“What ‘what’?” Stiles looked at him like _Derek_ was the stupid one. “I’m trying to save your life. Show some gratitude, man.”

And then he caught the meaning behind the action.

“Don’t you dare,” he growled.

“Are you _stupid_? You were _poisoned_. We have to get that stuff out of you!”

“No, we don’t,” Derek replied stubbornly. Because, seriously, no they didn’t. Especially not with the help of the guy who may or may not have been involved with the murder of his sister and uncle. Derek wasn’t just going to forget that part.

Stiles’ face twisted in annoyance. “For fuck’s sake, what are you so worried about?”

“For starter’s, it could poison _you, too_ ,” Derek deflected the answer. For a brief second an unreadable expression flitted over the soft features of the boy, before he just rolled his eyes.

“Fine, just go ahead and die then,” he snarled back and stood up. Derek thought he was going to leave and he found himself not really minding because he could seek the boy out again any time he wanted and he desperately needed some time to think about _everything_. But Stiles just stood there, staring into the distance looking at something before letting out a long suffering breath. His hands flexed before they decisively started to unbuckle his belt.

“What now?”

“Just shut up. I know what I’m doing,” Stiles said, the belt whizzing as he pulled it through the loops. “Probably,” he added and Derek just snorted at the confidence that did nothing to assure him. That is, if he had been in some kind of need of assurance, which he fortunately was not. He could feel the familiar sting of flesh and muscles recreating, striving to connect and close, the blood pulsing hot and slow. He was already healing. It would just take a few hours.

But the boy didn’t know about his healing ability. And Derek was not planing on letting it slip. Derek wasn’t even sure why they were in this situation because Stiles should have left and run away, making it easier to hate him and force his anger on him. Instead he had pulled Derek through his moment of rigidity, and actually contemplated sucking the poison out of the wound. Which was disgusting and unsettling at the same time.

Stiles’ eyes were intently fixed on him as long fingers worked to roll the sleeves up, which was probably stupid but he didn’t comment on it, instead ignored the chill of his bones that arose from every quick touch.

“This should, you know, stop the distribution. Saw that once in a movie.”

Derek kept silent.

“This really doesn’t look good,” Stiles commented, watching with a hint of fascination and awe. Derek frowned. And the second the leather tightened around his arm, just above the wound he felt it. Something sharp and stony pressing into his skin and then a tug at his instincts and desires and _brain_ , irrationally growing, drawing his wolf out like it was being called.

“What?” he breathed, shoving Stiles away as his muscles flexed. His teeth started to clatter and ache and elongated which was impossible.

With a disturbing sense of clarity he realized that he was shifting.

His eyes flashed bright red, claws growing out of his nails and he stared at his hand in confusion and disbelief and pain, because it hurt when he tried to suppress the shift. He didn’t know what was happening but he knew he was slowly losing it. “Get away,” he growled, words coming out in an almost howl but Stiles’ eyes were just wide as he looked at him, mouth slightly open. There was another surge of pain when he fought for dominance over his instincts, but he bit through it, long teeth burying themselves into his lip, breaking the skin, the metallic taste on his tongue only enticing the wolf.

Derek wasn’t going to give up his control. The last time he involuntarily shifted was when he was sixteen and saw the burned down remains of his home, the lingering stench of burning flesh and hair in the air, when the confusion and disbelief had turned into grief and anger.

_Anger._

It was all Derek had left and even that was about to get stripped from him.

He clawed into his arms, the pain only a momentary distraction. And then everything suddenly stopped. Derek’s breath and heart and the time, before it all came crashing over him with heavy force. His body relaxed under the pressure of deformation, his muscles easing. He took a deep breath in relief when his claws turned back into nails. There was a sharp intake of breath and Derek’s head snapped up. Stiles stood over him, watching him, his head slightly tilted to the side.

“Holy fuck,” Stiles said and left it at that.

Derek growled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three and finally some Derek/Stiles interaction. I really enjoyed writing them both together. Uploading this chapter was a pain because of my bad connection. I'm not sure when I will upload the next chapter (this is not going to become a weekly thing!) but I try not to take my time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I haven't said it yet, but thanks for all the kudos and comments and the constant encouragment from readers! And a thanks to every person I forcefully involved in this monster by blackmailing them into reading and re-reading everything for plot holes. If there are still some left, it's their fault, not mine. Absolutely.  
> (Not...)  
> If something doesn't make sense yet, it will make sense soon. Promise!  
> Speculations and pointing out mistakes totally appreciated by the way!

_Fuck_ , Derek Hale _was_ a werewolf, Stiles’ brain screamed as he stood over the man who looked up at him with a confused expression. Probably as confused as the hunter was, though for completely different reasons.

Because Derek Hale was a werewolf and he had _gotten into his house_.

How?

_How?_

He was tempted to throw that question at the man.

But that would probably be a dead giveaway. Not that the runes were particularly subtle. The werewolf – and he could now legitimately call him that – wasn’t stupid. He probably knew they were something, even if he hopefully didn’t know the meanings behind them. Derek was _strong_ , too, obnoxiously so, the hunter had realized almost in awe, watching him struggling against the tug and actually suppressing it even if it took him a while. And he had told him to leave, even if it was barely audible. Derek Hale wasn’t sure he could fight the pull off, didn’t know if he could control himself after the shift and he told Stiles to _run_? That was probably the most ridiculous thing the brunette had ever heard. It was common knowledge that moving prey was _easier to attract attention_.

The boy stomped down the urge to roll his eyes.

So instead he continued his internal monologue: Derek could avoid the runes in his backyard because he was stronger than the Omegas who had tried or who he had dragged into his wine cellar? Was that yet another difference between born and made werewolves? Their control or lack thereof? Or was that a difference between Alpha and Omega?

And then another fact suddenly sunk in.

Stiles’ head snapped up, the full moon’s white light filtering through the trees. Werewolves were the most dangerous during a full moon, his grandfather had taught him. It was when their bloodlust was the strongest, when they couldn’t control their instincts and turned into mindless monsters, waiting to be taken down like the wild animal they were.

But Derek Hale, enigma that he was, had stayed in his human form until Stiles had forced the shift on him. He had heard about ‘anchoring’ like it was a fairytale. Just rumors between the grape wines. Mystical stuff that influenced an Alpha state. Shit like that.

But _it was true_.

And that realization stunned him.

Because that meant a lot he wasn’t prepared to think about. That he had to re-evaluate everything he had ever done in false knowledge. And that was something he didn’t want to deal with. At all.

“What?” he just choked because that was all he could do. He thought he had done a really good job at pretending to be Stiles, not the hunter, he shouldn’t waste his acting ability because he was confused. Though the shock was probably a nice touch. “Full moon,” he continued in one word sentences, pointing through the branches of the trees. “Why?”

Derek looked at him through his eye lashes, face cast down like he was ashamed. Or angry. Or confused. Basically, it could have been none and all of the suggestions but the stoic mask wasn’t giving much away. He had a feeling they would all look the same anyway.

“Okay, no, what _was_ all that?” He asked, his hand wildly gesturing at everything that had been going on. Guys shooting _arrows_ at them. Derek turning, which, to be fair, had been his fault. Not that Derek had figured that one out yet. Hopefully never will. But he had to do it, even risked blowing his cover. Because he had to be a hundred percent _sure_.

The hunter had actually been convinced ever since Derek had pulled that arrow out like it was nothing. He was convinced when the wolfsbane colored the opening of the wound black. But he had to _see_ , because there had been so much speaking _against_ it.

And _another bloody Alpha_ , which… was actually making sense, he thought. Alpha-hood was probably hereditary. Because Alpha’s had to exist somehow. So…

Stiles squinted his eyes at the man.

Laura had been an Alpha, probably. Seeing as she was the oldest apart from Peter, who had been more or less out of order. And after Peter was fixed, however that had happened, he had killed his niece to become an Alpha and _now_ , after Stiles had killed _him_ it had gone to Derek Hale? The sole survivor of the Hale Pack?

He was just randomly guessing here because that was exactly the kind of shit people should _tell_ him, but no-one seemed to be inclined in _offering_. Which was just ridiculous, because apparently that was _crucial_.

Maybe he could just use Derek for information? The werewolf was probably going to keep Stiles around as long as he was trying to find out who killed his family. Stiles was his only lead. And the hunter was the only one who knew the truth. Which had Stiles evidently important enough to rescue even if it meant getting hurt in the process.

And maybe it wasn’t even such a bad choice. Derek was the first werewolf he had met that hadn’t tried to outright _kill_ him. Okay, the second but he liked to forget that particular encounter two years ago. Anyway, he was sure the intent was there, somewhere, but he kinda understood. Sister dead. Uncle dead. Most likely. No confirmation _yet_. The guy must be under a lot of stress and such. And the worst he did was banging his head against a door which _wasn’t nice at all_ but not the worst that had happened to Stiles in the last few weeks. Apparently, Lacrosse was more dangerous than the Derek Hale he was currently dealing with. Especially considering that he tried to make Stiles flee. Nevermind into the woods, with no way out or maybe directly into the hands of the Hunters who might be back on their track. Which was just stupid.

Derek was stupid.

And shit.

How long had he been blankly staring at the werewolf? Was it long enough to become awkward if he would have noticed instead of wandering off into his own mind?

Presumably.

“So, you are…” Stiles started, his hand making a circling motion that hopefully told Derek to finish the sentence.

The man just scowled at him.

Which, wow. Mature anyone?

“I mean besides scary and violent as shit, and all…” Stiles wondered if he should be more surprised. Were normal people surprised and scared when they looked at an actual werewolf? Probably. Was _Stiles_ a normal human being? Definitely not.

“Alright, I’ll just say it, because we cannot ignore the giant pink elephant in the room. Dude, I’m sorry to be the one to break this to you, but this was totally like a scene from Twilight.” Derek’s eyebrows shoot up and for a second there Stiles thought the guy was going to rip his throat out at the comparison. “Which is cool, though,” he continued. “I’m Team Jacob anyway, so chill.” He held his hands up in defense, not that they would do him any good if the man decided to throw his 200 pounds of muscle and werewolf at his 150 pounds of awkward human limps. “But that kinda makes you—” Derek rolled his eyes like it was actually _physically_ hurting him to admit the fact. _It wasn’t even a secret anymore!_ “A werewolf?” he finished after a long silence. It was obvious that Derek would rather die in agony or more likely let Stiles die in agony than say it out loud.

“Are you telling me you didn’t know?”

“I didn’t _what now_?” Stiles almost choked on his spit in honest surprise. “I’m sorry? Is it common for werewolves to waltz into your room, threatening and then kidnapping you? I must have missed the memo telling me it’s Merry Werewolf Abduction Day. Then again,” his hands flicked somewhere to the sky for emphasis. “Should have been a hint, actually.” _Should have_ but wasn’t. If you can’t trust your grandfather or folklore tales or the moon, what else could you trust? Because seriously, he had sincerely and apparently stupidly believed that werewolves would all turn during the full moon. Each. And. Every. One. He had kept vigilance _every month_ for the last two years. Ever since he thought he was ready for dealing with werewolves alone.

Turned out he wasn’t ready for any of this shit.

And he blamed his grandfather.

“But I guess that kinda explains why…” he whirled his arms, throwing his hands back into the general direction where he assumed the hunters had been. “They… the people back there were out to get you.”

“Hunters,” Derek said tersely. “In Beacon Hills.”

“Right. ‘Hunters’. Of course you’d pull a Winchester on me.” Secretly, Stiles hoped they were real. After all some bros to share stories and man pain with would be awesome but due to a lack of impending doom and apocalypse and strange environmental happenings he figured they were just fiction. He should know. He had checked clues. Several times.

“I didn’t know.” Derek sounded more like he was talking to himself, maybe hadn’t even intended for him to hear. So the boy remained silent. What was he supposed to say anyway? ‘Dude, me neither’? The only Hunter in Beacon Hills he knew about was himself. _So fuck you grandpa for never introducing me to your little hunting friends, you old stinky bastard,_ he thought bitterly.

“They’re only after werewolves,” Derek suddenly said and Stiles looked up, narrowing his eyes at the unmentioned ‘not after you’ and therefore the maybe slightly not so subtle attempt to _reassure_ him, which was actually only necessary when shit was going down, and shit was so hitting the fan he could taste it in the air.

“You think they won’t hurt me?” he asked. Derek just glanced at him with his default scowl that was apparently used for _everything_ besides seething anger and utter confusion, but refrained from giving an answer.

“The fuck they won’t,” he spat, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “They probably think I’m _working_ with a – and I can’t believe I say this – _werewolf_ , so they _will_ fucking hurt me.” It wasn’t even a lie. Because they did now. Most likely. Because Stiles was _stupid_. Oh, the second he got home and no-one saw him he was so going to bang his head against the wall for a super fun hour of head splitting headaches.

“They have a code,” Derek explained.

And the brunette was about to yell back that that code had really worked well for Derek in the past, but he bit the words away. Because no, that would be maybe a little bit too much. Instead he opted for what he was best in. “Oh really? Do they have a secret handshake, too?”

“No. But a dress code,” Derek answered and Stiles gaped at him. There was no hint of amusement, irony, sarcasm or anything else in these words and he could not, for the life of him, figure out if the man had just made a terrible joke or was honestly telling him the unabashed truth about a maybe dressing code he had never heard about before. He didn’t get to ask because the werewolf was seemingly of the opinion that their game of seven questions was over now, as he loosened the belt from his arm and examined it with irate curiosity.

There wasn’t much the werewolf would see, the teenager thought, calming himself down. He couldn’t even be sure if Derek had even caught on to the fact that the belt was the reason behind the shift. Not the belt per se but the stones attached to it like ornaments.

Pure white Anorthosite.

It was something he concluded during his research, nothing anyone told him or taught him or he had read anywhere. It had just been a guess back then, but he had been able to try it out and it worked.

Werewolves themselves probably didn’t know.

“What is this?” Derek asked.

“Ceramic?” he answered in question.

The werewolf eyed him for a moment before his fingers tentatively brushed against the stones. Nothing happened. Not enough pressure, the boy knew, and the fact that Derek had not only suppressed the urge but was also prepared for it now probably hampered the effect as well. The hunter filed that information away. Another thing was that it had to get into the system. He had used Derek’s own blood from the arrow wound, and the scratches the stones had made as he tightened the belt did the rest but they were probably healed by now. And so would the wound of the arrow in a matter of minutes. Not because of the werewolf’s natural healing ability. And Derek would know that, too.

Because this neat little trick was a double edged sword.

“Ceramic?” Derek repeated. The boy hoped he wasn’t going to keep the belt. Because it had been quite a lot of work to get the Anorthosite the way he wanted it, had to charm it even and there were tiny runes painted on it on the side he had glued to the fabric. He could make a new one. He would rather not though.

“Yeah, just some fancy embellishment,” he replied. Derek frowned, hand now confidently wrapping around the whole of the belt, then wound it around his. “You know,” Derek stopped at his words and Stiles looked at him, pointing at the open gash in his arm he knew was healing by now. “Maybe you should get that to a hospital?”

The man just snorted at his words, attention back on the belt.

“It looks like it’s oozing out, you know. It’s kinda gross. And we would have an excuse to look for Axe Bitch.” That piqued Derek’s interest and he abandoned playing with the leather, his eyebrows rising in question.

“You know, she was wearing a nurse outfit.”

Derek’s eyes went wide for a moment and Stiles could actually see wheels turning. If he played this smooth and cool and calm, Axe Maniac was the best scapegoat he could wish for. She was perfect. Because her scent was in the woods. Because she might have been working with Peter Hale, _if_ Peter Hale had been the werewolf he had shot. She was a nurse with access to the facilities, with opportunity to get Peter Hale out of the room without anyone even looking twice. Best thing, even if he couldn’t blame the murder on her, she could have still been an accomplice to someone else, one of the Hunters that had just attacked him. Which really, he should have a word with them because neither Derek nor him had been in a werewolf form so why had they been attacking them? Christ, even he had enough patience to at least make sure his prey was indeed on the furry side of life before he took it out.

Assholes.

But first things first. Information gathering, he started to plot. Second, finding out what he was going to do with Derek Hale. He couldn’t let him roam around his territory, he couldn’t chase him around, he couldn’t just invite him over for fucking dinner and ask him to stay with him in a house where he hid various weapons and wolfsbane and some blood samples of Omegas he might have tortured a little when he was in his wicked experimental phase and hate had been his only motivation to even partake in those hunts with his granddad and aunt.

Back then he had assumed they were telling him everything they knew, teaching and training him to become as good as they were. Stiles had thought he knew everything when he was a kid.

Now he knew he had never known anything at all, being fed lies he swallowed without questioning. And nothing made sense anymore. Had stopped ever since he had held that cub in his arm, its dead mother at his feet. Ever since he had looked that Alpha in the eyes and only saw honest amusement. And now it stopped again with a vicious jerk as he was facing Derek Hale who could do things a werewolf shouldn’t be able to do.

His grandfather had kept important stuff from him. Stuff he apparently wasn’t supposed to find out. And that just made him determined to dig through all the dirt and get down to the bottom of it. Even if he had to do it with the unintentional help of a stupid werewolf. It wasn’t the first time the hunter had gotten his hands dirty and it wasn’t going to be the last time.

But first he had to calm down. This was not the time to give in to anger. Especially not with a werewolf watching him with some sort of suspicious confusion. Hey, he was completely sure that his internal emotional whirlwind from… what had he been feeling? Annoyance, anger, confusion, betrayal? Oh shit, maybe there should have been more _fear_ or something like that? Because animals, yeah, they could totally smell that shit on you.

Fear.

Stiles can totally do that. If anyone, Stiles was the man for fear, though it would probably be strange _now_. Maybe he could just brush it off as shock? What did shock feel like anyway?

Ow, just screw this, he was far too tired for this shit.

And he should, like, really stop with the internal rantings because he lost any sense of time again and really didn’t know how long Derek had been glaring at him this time. Had he been talking to him? Doubtfully because it looked like Derek wasn’t fluent in any language besides violent shoving and eyebrow code.

So Stiles raised his eyebrows at him.

Derek pressed his lips tightly together, knotting his own brows.

Stiles threw his hands in the air.

_What now?_

“Sorry, my brain kinda short-circuited,” he explained, “what with… _everything_.” No lie. He was really getting good at that not-lying-while-totally-lying-technique he had never thought useful until today.

Thanks at least for that, old fart.

“Can you. Identify her?” Derek growled at him and the annoyance in these tiny four words made it sound like he might have repeated that sentence a couple of times which he hadn’t noticed because he had been in his own thoughts. “Why? Can’t you sniff her out or something?”

Derek’s eyes slightly widened.

Oh bugger.

“Dude, I’ve watched Wolf Man. And you’ve been, like, excessively scrunching your nose as if you smelled something gross. I panicked because I thought I was sweating really bad there for a second or something.”

“No.” Derek said. And he was surprised about how much _emotion_ came with that one word when the guy wasn’t even able to convey feelings in longer sentences. “You weren’t panicked. You weren’t scared. Not once since—”

“I’m pretty sure I’m scared now,” he interrupted, backing off while Derek stepped closer. “You try avoiding shock when supernatural crap springs up on you. Should I apologize for not freaking out sooner?”

And here he was, running his mouth off again.

Derek stopped in his approach, hopefully mulling things over and disregarding his intent to kill him. He wasn’t prepared much for a fight right now and he would like to avoid it, if possible. Which was probably only possible if Stiles could convincingly declare his fear and frustration and mortification in this situation. He doubted he could do that, though. Stiles was famous for his big mouth, misplaced vigor and most of all faked courage even when scared totally shitless. But he should at least try. And if worse came to worst, well, the hunter would deal. He always did.

Stiles flinched when something suddenly hit him in the stomach and ouch, his body was _aching_ all over, like what the hell? When he slightly shifted to look down, he saw his belt on the ground. “What the actual fuck?” Stiles growled, bending down to pick it up. “How—What—Jesus, don’t tell me—no—wait—”

“It’s healed,” Derek said, interrupting his inane chatter as if that explained his rude action.

“Well good for _you_ ,” he barked, but then blinked and looked at the upper arm, where should have been a wound. From an arrow. Where an arrow had been. But now it was all smooth and like from a statue from da Vinci or something. “How the fuck? Are you Superman or what?”

“It shouldn’t heal that fast.”

“You telling _me_? I’m not majoring in physiology but even _I_ know that.”

Derek’s hand darted out, wrapped around Stiles’ wrist, twisting it in an awkward angle that made the brunette yelp and gasp in surprise. Totally not pain. “Did you heal it?”

“How would I do that?” Stiles asked, confusion pushing the uncomfortable sting from his contorted skin and the pressure on his bones away. Derek watched him, his eyes falling to the belt in Stiles’ hand and the teenager was following his gaze, then looked up and stared at the man in even more confusion. “Do I look like a healer to you? I mean, one of my Wardens is skilled in healing but besides that, no magical powers or anything like that in my world.”

“You did that.”

“I did nothing. Dude, I’m not even sure what you’re accusing me of. I don’t even know what happened here aside from the fact that you apparently saved me while I fainted or whatever, which might deserve a _thanks_ that you’re not going to get because you’re an asshole. And even if I had miraculously healed that injury, which I have _not_ , usually people would be thankful and not act like a total dick about it.” With a final tug Stiles pulled his hand free but he was not under the illusion that it was because of his virile strength or anything, but just because the man let him.

They watched each other in silence, Stiles eying Derek suspiciously up and down while Derek did the same. It would have been hilarious if it wasn’t so annoying and confusing and irritating and frightening.

“So,” Stiles started, when it was apparent that Derek was not going to use his vocabulary to resolve anything. “You bring me back home?”

Derek scowled.

“Oh, don’t even start!” The boy said, pointing an accusing finger at the man. “You brought me out here, you _will_ bring me back. Unless you want me to run smack into these … people back there.” Derek didn’t react. “And if I’m not mistaken you still want that axe, right?”

“And the rune.”

Stiles eyes went wide. “Are you bargaining with me right now?” He asked in disbelief, mouth hanging open. “Because I’m pretty sure that you have no leverage. At all.” Derek was faster on him than Stiles could finish that sentence, pulling him close at his ribbed collar. “What? This is your argument? Totally not valid,” he pushed, chin held high. He wasn’t sure if the wetness at the back of his shirt was from the damp air or sweat from all that physical exercise but he hoped Derek wouldn’t notice.

 _Self-preservation, Stiles, self-preservation!_ , his subconscious was whispering at him and he was rolling his eyes at it because he wasn’t cut out for shit like that. “You brought me here, you wanted something out of it. Did you find what you were looking for? Figured anything out, yet?”

Shadowed eyes were boring into him and he tried not to squirm under the murderous glare, instead staring right back. There was a long contemplative silence until Derek finally let him go, but did not back off. Instead Stiles took a vague step back to get some distance between them. For breathing reasons. Not staying alive reasons. Even if breathing was connected to staying alive, so maybe it was for staying alive reasons?

Ah, fuck, whatever.

Bottom line, he didn’t back off because he was scared. Nope. Not at all.

He wasn’t sure if he came off lightly. There were hundreds of horrible things he could have pictured done to him that did not involve him getting killed but most likely made him spill everything he knew just because he was afraid of the pain. Maybe Derek wanted to torture him as soon as they were back at Stiles’. Part of him hoped his father was there, with his gun. Another part of him hoped his father was never going to find out about the break in and everything else. He was actually wary of getting back into the car until he remembered the Camaro and how beautiful she was and how good she had been treated to look so smooth and shiny and black.

“Get going,” Derek interrupted his mental appreciation rudely.

Stiles looked him up and down, huffed in annoyance before he stormed of into the general direction of the car, while muttering insults under his breath, Derek very close on his heels.

* * *

Apparently, the axe was worthless.

At least Derek told him so, when Stiles had gotten it out of the car and thrown it at the man and it landed only short in front of his feet. Stiles didn’t ask why or question it in any way. He just ignored him as he marched into the house and came back with a slip of paper and a pen. “Just to make sure, you’re leaving me alone as soon as I draw this for you, okay?”

“I want more.”

“Oh God, I don’t know anything else,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes.

“Liar.”

“Alright, you know what? This officially creeps me out. _You_ creep me out. I don’t know what you have done before all the breaking in, threatening and lurking but how you’re not in jail simply amazes me. And I promise you, the second you show up here again I’m going to call the cops. I got your name, buddy. I’m not even joking. Now _you_ tell me if I’ve been _lying_.” Derek didn’t answer and Stiles nodded to himself in acknowledgment. “Sounds like a ‘no’ to me,” he muttered and turned his attention back to the piece of paper.

Fact was, he had seen that rune. In his mother’s greenhouse. He could hit his head for not realizing it sooner. Which was why Stiles was sure that message, whatever it was supposed to mean, was for him, not for Derek.

Stiles would probably feel a little bit guilty for not telling Derek but he had been a complete asshole ever since they met in his bedroom. Exhibit A. _In his bedroom_. Then again. _Dead sister_. It wasn’t an excuse for anything but it was fairly obvious that Derek blamed _him_ just because he had been in the woods and lost a necklace. Stiles wasn’t sure what he would do if his father died and he’d blamed the next-door neighbor for whatever reasons. The man wouldn’t survive an hour, he eventually decided.

He drew the rune as close to the symbol he had seen in the woods. There were a few derivations from the one in his mother’s greenhouse. He left them blank because he didn’t know how important they were or not. “That’s it. Partially.” Stiles said, showing the paper into the man’s hand. “Now leave.”

“That woman.”

“What about her?”

“Will you recognize her. When you see her?” Derek spoke slowly, in easy words and simple sentences as if Stiles was a freaking moron.

“How would I know? It was dark,” he stated angrily. “Yeah, maybe, I don’t know. What? Are you going to accuse me of not being thoughtful enough to snap a picture with my phone or something?”

Derek didn’t reply, instead his eyes flickered up to one of the windows and Stiles turned to look at them. The second he returned his attention back to Derek, he was gone. Stiles threw his hands in the air in exasperation before he stormed into the house, then checked every window and door, locked those that weren’t and fell head first into his bed.

He didn’t get any sleep.

* * *

The next day passed quietly.

Surprisingly so.

There was no Derek Hale inflicted trauma, though there was kind of a Scallison… Allisott? Anyway, a _Scott and Allison_ induced trauma somewhere on the horizon because seriously, there was stuff he just didn’t need to know and Scott felt so open to share. Mister Harris was still the worst teacher in the history of human kind, which made it all the worse because he actually liked chem—blowing up stuff. Homework was a load of time sucking evil, the lacrosse team was still working themselves at a leisurely pace to a full blown hate towards Stiles, the food in the cafeteria was as unhealthy as ever – not that he’d ever willingly chose something like the savoy cabbage stew – and Jackson was still a blue-haired asshole.

Stiles decided he liked quiet.

On the first night Stiles even humored Derek, when he coincidentally spotted him watching his house and therefore pretended he wasn’t there. Even though there had been a moment he kept telling himself that he was just being paranoid. That he wasn’t that interesting to anyone. He kept down-talking himself about the situation so much that he started to feel sorry for himself and that was just something he didn’t deal well with. Because he didn’t need to feel _sorry_ for himself. He had the bestest friend in the world and the greatest father anyone could wish for and he was an awesome person to begin with, so yeah.

Didn’t change the fact that he became a nervous wreck, twitching in school whenever he felt a chill run down his spine that was probably just from air through an open window. Or when he heard a dull thud or sometimes a scraping noise he couldn’t pin-point but blamed on the heater or ventilation system. Stiles was pretty sure Derek wasn’t a poltergeist or stalking him 24/7. Superman or not, he was sure the guy needed some sleep, too.

The second day into Derek’s lurking Stiles dropped all pretense of not knowing about the stalking and the second he noticed the Camaro three cars behind him Stiles just pulled over, waiting for Derek to pass or stop. The man looked at him as he drove by and then suddenly pulled over right in front of him. Of course. Because he was the freaking dom in everything.

Stiles slammed his door of his jeep shut and tapped on the window of Derek’s car. Derek sighed in annoyance and rolled his eyes and Stiles was tempted to kick against his door. Of course he didn’t. Because that was just rude. To the car. She was a beauty and everyone should treat her with the respect she deserved. So Stiles just yanked the door open and kicked Derek against the chin instead, letting out the frustration that had garnered between being unable to jerk off and hearing creepy noises and panicking that his father would notice anything. He had probably jarred his big toe but the look on Derek’s face was totally worth it. Stiles’ head slammed against the top of the car and the awful nosebleed that followed was not.

Stiles didn’t know what he was doing wrong or right or not at all.

According to his own judgment he was handling the whole stalker thing brilliantly.

Seriously.

Even if he went outside to yell at the darkness on the third night. But that was because he was so angrily self-conscious and started to debate with himself over every activity he planned for the evening on their stalker-friendliness. It took him a while to figure out a nearly perfect system: a scale ranging from 1: ‘Things I would tell Scott’ to 10: ‘Things Lydia Martin is allowed to know about me’. He had deducted that everything above a six was an okay thing to do. But of course all the fun stuff was located somewhere at 0: ‘Stuff I just do because I can’ and 3: ‘Thank God my father is a deputy but at the same time: damn’.

No one should be forced to contrive such a plan and have to follow through with it. _No one_. And Stiles really had a very, very low morality concerning what he was willing to show to the public and what not. Worst was that he had actually fallen into a pattern of checking to make sure whether the dark silhouette was in his backyard or not before doing anything at all. He contemplated skipping the showers and regretted the fact that their blinds in the bathroom were broken. He wrote a message to his father to buy new ones.

“I hate you,” he barked at the shadows and Stiles shouldn’t be able to make the man out just by a little too dark flicker somewhere between an acorn and a birch tree. That was just not normal anymore. “I hate you so much. Either you come in or you go away, because I will not have you hiding in our bushes. What are you even doing here?”

Derek’s shadow vanished and Stiles cried out in frustration, stomping his feet before he went back inside.

On the fourth day he got a reply from his father telling him “Busy. Do it yourself”. Which was not nice but his concerns were dedicated to his nerves at that point. His nerves that started to really act up. There were times when he felt eyes on him but the moment he turned around no-one was there and he chalked it off as over-sensitivity and strained nerves due to Derek stalking him. Then there had been a few times in classes when he thought he heard voices, like maybe Derek was screwing with him one way or another. They weren’t exactly voices, more like distinct noises he couldn’t put an origin to. It was disconcerting. It became frightening the second it started at home, or when he was driving the jeep or when he was grocery shopping or when he tried to fall asleep at night or when it got louder whenever he was changing in the locker rooms. And the thing with the buried alive he experienced in Math class or the day dream of getting burned at the stake in English? Totally a result of the sleep deprivation he suffered _because Derek was stalking him._

Stiles thought upping his dosage of Adderall could maybe help somehow.

He was wrong.

Turned out the noises grew even louder, more distinct and if he listened really closely he could even make out some words and worse: screams. He twisted and turned on his bed, hands covering his ears as if he could drown everything out like that. He tried to stifle his sobs and cries and yelled into his pillow, trying to keep quiet, to not wake his father. But it was ear-shattering loud in his head and his skin was itching and burning and tearing and his lungs started to burn from the screaming and somewhere in-between choking back tears and biting into his pillow he must have passed out.

He never tried that ever again.

* * *

Stiles decided enough was enough. It was totally normal to call the cops on someone who was watching his house in the middle of the night. _Totally normal_. Maybe he should have been happy that Derek had morphed out of the shadows and into the street light that night five days after their fateful venture into the woods. But instead it made him even angrier, because it meant that Derek now felt safe doing this. That he wasn’t afraid of any repercussions. Which was why, as soon as Stiles had seen the Camaro parked across the street, something just simply snapped in his brain and he was faster on the telephone than anyone could scream Polo.

He pondered for a while, who he should call first. Of course he wanted to keep his father out of everything that was going on but there was the absolute certainty that the deputies would tell his dad about a stalker in front of his house anyway.

So with a tired sigh he called his father.

Voice mail.

Stiles didn’t even have the energy to get angry about that, instead he left a short message and then called dispatch.

Of course Deputy Lynch was kind of a bitch about it at the beginning, but Stiles swore, cross my heart and eat my soul and all that shit, that there really, truly was a guy watching his house, so the man eventually connected him with Tara, who just listened in silence to his thrilling tale until the boy was out of breath and clutched his phone in both hands, panting into the speaker.

He had faith in the pretty woman. She had helped him with his homework when he was little, she sure as hell would help him with a stalker problem.

“Stiles,” Tara said sternly, not even hiding her annoyance and exasperation. “Why are you whispering?”

“Because I think he can hear me?”

“You said he’s outside your house. In his car.”

“ _I don’t know_ , okay? I’m freaking out here! Do you always know why you do what you do when you freak out? _Do you?_ I don’t! Listen, this guy,” he stopped when he realized his voice had grown louder with every word and quieted down again, “he’s been after me for days. I swear, _for days_. I’ve caught him in my backyard several times.”

“Your backyard,” Tara deadpanned, unimpressed. “So he was on your property?”

“Yeah, well not directly, you know, behind my backyard, but that’s bad enough okay? I think he saw me doing Madonna’s ‘Like A Virgin’!” There was a snort from the telephone and suddenly laughter. From several people. “Am I… on loud speaker?”

“Yes, you are,” she sing-songed and Stiles’ eyes went wide.

“Oh my God. Why am I on loud speaker? Why would you do that? Who else heard that right now? This is mortifying. I’m mortified. I have to sit down, let me just,” Stiles fumbled for his chair, pulling it over. “Fuck. Now I have to kill you all. I want _names_. Stat.” There was a piece of paper on his desk that had to succumb to his anger as he slowly tore it apart in little pieces. “Then again, if you don’t do anything about my stalker situation soon, I’ll probably be dead anyway. Way to go Stiles. Just tell the whole sheriff’s department that you sing and dance to pop songs from the nineties before you’re getting killed. All they will do, when they find your mutilated corpse is laugh because they’ll be picturing you in a Madonna cosplay.”

“There’s _dancing and cosplaying_ , too?” a male voice he could vaguely make out as Deputy Bungalon’s suddenly barged in, cracking before completely bursting into a full blown laughing fit.

“I hate you all. Hate. You. All.”

He could hear Tara coughing and then hushing her colleagues into silence. Stiles was sure she had to kick a few of them out of the room, too. They were so not taking him serious. Which was probably his own fault. Boy who cried wolf and all that karma shit. He shouldn’t have made so many prank calls when he was young and stupid.

“Alright, Stiles. We’ll sent someone over. Do you know who’s … ‘stalking’ you?”

“I’ll have you know that I just heard these quotation marks.”

“Good,” she replied easily. “Do you?”

Stiles chewed on his lips, spinning on his chair.

“Stiles?”

“I’m thinking, okay?” Thinking about what the hell he was supposed to answer. Like if he dropped the name Derek Hale she would want to know, how he knew it was him and how they met and he was seriously not prepared for any of that.

“Someone in a black Camaro.”

“Black Camaro? Plate?”

“Seriously, Tara, _seriously_? Are we really doing this? How many black Camaros have you seen in this town ever since fucking forever?”

“Language, Stiles.” There was quiet amusement in her voice, like she enjoyed teasing him. Which she probably did. “Alright then, and you are calling from 109 Farmington—,” she paused mid-word, and Stiles waited for her to continue. There was a deep sigh when she dropped the speaker and then some creaking noise as if Tara left her chair. Then there were voices, quiet, before she returned. “So you’re calling from your house, right?”

“Where else should I call from?”

“McCall’s?” she asked in return.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Okay, valid,” he admitted, because he spent a lot of time at Scott’s house. He had his own room and if that wasn’t a damn giveaway then he didn’t knew what. “No, no, I’m _home_ home,” he clarified. “Like my real home. My family’s home. Where I live. With my father.”

“Got it,” Tara replied with a strained voice after another pause, then she hung up. Stiles was a little offended that she did without saying goodbye but then again he had taken up a lot of her time.

It didn’t even take them ten minutes and Stiles had watched from his living room through the curtains with some spark of satisfaction, when Deputy Becky Clerk Simpson left the cruiser and walked over to the parked car to knock at the window. His smile faded when he noticed her looking around in confusion, back at Derek, then to Stiles’ house. The boy rolled his eyes. Of course she doubted his story, what with Derek looking like a psychopathic greek statue.

For a second Stiles thought this was it. She would just leave and Derek would wait until they were gone and then climb through his window, trying to murder him. Stiles was already counting the minutes he had to pack his stuff and leave the country, when Chester left the cruiser as well and walked up to them. There was an exchange of words and then finally Derek left the car and they brought him to the cruiser.

Stiles fucking loved Chester.

One day he would marry Chester, just for being Chester. He didn’t care that the man was a married, fifty year old overweighted prude with little hair. He would so marry him the second he got a divorce from his caring, elegantly aged wife, who made the best pies in the whole world and Chester was very much in love with.

Thank God they were so in love.

Stiles really didn’t want them to divorce.

And then marry Chester just because he declared his love over the fact that the man stoically did his job as he was told. Always. Even with psycho-maniac Underwear Model Derek Hale.

Who apparently stalked a sixteen-year old scrawny boy.

Stiles took a deep breath and for the first time in almost a week he actually felt better about himself and this whole situation. If he had just stayed out of the forest that goddamned day. If he had just not looked for the corpse everything would have been so much easier, but nooo, he had to go. Of course. Because he was Stiles Stilinski.

Annoyed at himself he walked up the stairs, and then leaned back on his desk chair and opened his laptop, prepared to spend the night sending his Charr through Tyria as he should have done the last week if he hadn’t been so caught up with the whole Derek Hale thing.

After what felt like an hour of Stiles contemplating for the hundredth time whether or not to just screw it all and create a female noblewoman to get some Prince Faren action – because he loved Prince Faren, no shame in that, okay? – Stiles pushed the Laptop away in distaste, ignoring the chats that followed after the sudden immobility of his Charr in the midst of a fight against—Stiles didn’t even know what exactly.

Because he just couldn’t _concentrate_.

Stiles had been in the right to call the police. The boy knew that. And Derek had been warned. Stiles had told him he would call the cops on him. But there was just this nagging feeling in the back of his mind that told him he was missing something really important here.

And yes, he knew he should have just given the man what he wanted but Stiles was paranoid enough to believe that his knowledge was all that kept Derek from outright attacking him. Logically speaking, Stiles knew that if Derek wanted to hurt him he would have done it the first time they met, or in the woods, or left him on his own during the attack. He had had several opportunities in the past, he would have dozens in the future. And he knew that Derek could force the information out of him by doing more than just – admittedly successfully – intimidating him or shoving him around. The fact that he didn’t try any of those other methods spoke volumes about the man.

The boy sighed in exasperation as he pushed his chair away from the desk, rolling a few feet through his room until he started to spin, chewing on a pencil, his feet accelerating the movement when it was slowing down.

He didn’t feel safe at home and he was truly thankful that his father was so busy with work that he spent more time at the bureau or on the street in his cruiser instead of at home. If it wasn’t for the food that Stiles prepared and was gone the next day he would doubt that his father even came home.

If Stiles wasn’t too worried to drag Scott and Melissa into his mess, he would have probably started to sleep over at the McCall’s just to get a good night’s rest at least once. Instead he chose to sleep in the library on the uncomfortable sad excuses of a chair until they closed which just left him cranky and made him scowl at Scott whenever he ditched him for a date with Allison. Stiles shouldn’t be angry at his best friend for something like that. He should be proud and maybe a little envious but not angry, goddammit.

This was just unbearable, he thought and stomped his foot down, stopping the spinning motion abruptly, and just by force of annoying habit he looked out of the window, eyes searching the trees for a shadow that he knew wasn’t there.

But totally was.

He all but flung himself against his desk, fumbling for his phone and almost dropping it when he hit the redial button.

No. No. _No_.

“Tara!” he yelled into the speaker when dispatch eventually answered. “I mean Deputy Tara, I mean, I need Deputy Tara Graeme.” The man gave a heavy sigh, mumbling something about Stiles being outstandingly annoying that night before he redirected the call.

“Stiles,” Tara said warily as form of greeting when she picked up.

“Is he, do you have, like, _is he free?_ ”

“Stiles, this is not—”

“Tara. It’s really, really important!”

“Calm down, Stiles.”

“Jesus, Tara, _did you let Derek Hale go?_ ”

Stiles breath was harsh as he kept his eyes trained on whatever was moving around the tree line. Tara was silent. Then: “Derek?”

Shit.

“You knew it was _Derek Hale_?”

 _Shit_.

“Just _answer_.”

“No, we didn’t—” she sighed and Stiles didn’t even get the rest. Because the person he had been screaming at at night, the shadow that was watching him, the _thing_ he never saw and had always assumed to be Derek—was not.

This wasn’t good.

This so wasn’t good, he thought, as he tried to catch his breath, to get as much air as possible into his lungs and some more oxygen to his brain because he felt like he was about to faint, his mind getting dizzy—

“Stiles? Stiles, are you listening?”

The boy jerked up in surprise, gasping for air when he suddenly straightened up, looking at the phone in irritation. “Yes, yeah,” he choked, getting a grip on his bodily functions – namely his lungs – to figure out what he had been doing to have his heart racing like a rabbit on a chase. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“I said,” the woman – Tara, right – repeated in annoyance. “that no, we didn’t let him out. But we can only keep him here until morning. It’s not like we have a statement or anything. We tried to question him but he refused to say anything, which of course is his right but he wasn’t asking for a lawyer or anything and I mean, it’s always difficult to prove stuff like stalking, you know?”

Stiles blinked, looking around the room helplessly to get a grasp of the situation.

“Stiles?”

“Yeah, I understand. Stalking. Bad.”

“Now would you mind telling me how you know Derek Hale?”

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Fuck,” he cursed and unceremoniously hung up.

How in the _whole world._

His eyes flickered to the window, detecting the by now much too familiar dark glow. He had noticed it for the first time when he had walked up and down in his room, trying to silence static in his head until something shifting in the moon light had caught his attention. He remembered opening his window and barking “Screw you, Derek” at the darkness before angrily slamming it shut again and closing his curtains.

But this was not Derek.

Because Derek Hale was in prison.

The _fucking werewolf_. In the police station. With humans. Because Stiles had – acceptably so – assumed the man was stalking him. And it obviously wasn’t even Derek. If the man was going on a rampage and killed everyone in the office the hunter couldn’t even claim that it had been an act of negligence anymore. That was deliberate action. And he was so angry right now he could punch a wall.

“Goddammit,” he yelled at the empty room instead. “Why do you _always_ do something _stupid?_ ”

He stormed out of the room and flew down the stairs. The only good thing about Derek in the police station was time to get prepared again. And then he would have to get the werewolf out ASAP. Stiles pushed the backyard door open, not missing the not-Derek-silhouette staring at him from between trees, even slightly shifting closer, but he ignored it, instead rushed into the greenhouse.

He hadn’t been able to take care of the plants there ever since Derek had come into town and they were in desperate need of water and he should do some weeding but that was not an option right now. The basics would have to be enough. So he picked up the watering can, dropped some water left and right, ignoring the dirt sticking to his pants and then bend down to collect some wolfsbane flowers, cutting some yellow Aconitum Anthora and Northern Blue Monkshood – his aunt’s favorite –, night shade, and then looked down at the herbs. He chewed his lips, before he shook his head and left the greenhouse half an hour later, stopping in the middle of the yard, lifting his eyes to return the sinister glare.

“I don’t care what you are,” he growled. “And I don’t care what you’re planning. If you continue to cause trouble, I’ll hunt you down.” The silhouette had not tried to enter. The hunter was sure it was because whatever it was _couldn’t_. The runes kept them at bay. The brunette didn’t even try to see the irony in that. _Now_ they did what they were supposed to do.

Stupid runes.

But whatever it was, it flinched at his words, tilting its head and moving closer. Stiles squinted his eyes, trying to get a better picture of it but it was just dark. And that was what had made him realize something was out there in the first place. The utter darkness, like a black hole sucking in the light.

There was some movement, a mouth appearing out of nothing and it moved like it was talking but all Stiles could hear was static and then his eyes widened. “It was you,” he choked and at the same time he understood, that if it weren’t for the runes and everything protecting Stiles, every little thing he had worked on and knew he could wear without attracting attention, that this _assault_ wouldn’t stop at mere noise. “You’re trying to get into my head,” he remarked. “This is why everything’s so screwed up right now.”

There was a slow deliberate shake of the head as the figure had most likely discovered that Stiles couldn’t understand a word. Stiles narrowed his eyes. The runes should keep it away. Completely, not just partially. There should be _nothing_ at all.

_Stupid runes._

They had been doing for years what they were supposed to do and now they just keep failing him. What was wrong with them? Or was it _him?_ Was he suddenly doing something wrong? But he hadn’t tampered with the runes for _months_.

“I’ll hunt you down,” he snarled, “I don’t know what you want and I don’t care. But you’ll regret crossing paths with me. I’m not easy prey.”

The silhouette vanished into nothing at that.

Stiles turned around on his heels, stormed back into the kitchen and opened the door to the hobby room, pushing the TV to the side before he rolled the carpet up, his finger hooking in the hole as he lifted the hatch up. He didn’t even use the ladder, instead just jumped down.

He had stayed out of the room in case Derek was ever going to visit unannounced again - as was apparently his thing. Good thing he always left the window open. As far as he knew, wolves could track down a trail or pick up a scent even after three days. He wasn’t sure how it was with werewolves. They might have heightened senses but the brain processing the stimuli was still partially human. However he was pretty sure that their senses were better in wolf form, seeing as the ears got bigger and pointy and the shape of the nose and even the eyes changed slightly. And yes, the hunter knew they weren’t exactly _wolves_ but he had done his homework on them and dogs. Most of his weapons relied on information he had gathered about the animals and were later tested on the real werewolves.

He knew for a fact that not everything worked the same.

But he couldn’t be careful enough.

He slapped the switch and the former wine cellar was lightened in a glaring white. It was small and cramped, but enough to work and hide his weapons. The flower leaves had to dry before he could pulverize them. Usually he would just hang them on the porch but that wasn’t really an option right now, what with a werewolf running around trying to find a hunter who had killed his family. Instead he got a newspaper and put the leaves between the pages before heaving book upon book on it for pressure. Then he headed for the stake of bullets, opening the lids with a sharp knife at the top before tipping them over and letting the powder run into a bowl.

He froze for a moment, sniffing his fingers. There was going to be a lot of scrubbing going on before he headed up to the Sheriff’s department, the hunter decided, then continued to prepare different bullets, mingling the gun powder with already pulverized wolfsbane, mountain ash, anorthosite, rowan or basalt, then checked his gun, testing the lock, polishing burrs off the lock. He needed a new flint, the last one had gotten damp in the rain. He had pushed it back because he had thought he would have all the time of the day, but no, of course not. If he had known a werewolf would start to hunt him he wouldn’t have procrastinated. At least he had cleaned it. Good going! Still, he hated trimming the stupid flint, he thought, as he got the napping hammer from a drawer under the working table. _Fucking flint._ He really wished his grandfather would buy him an automatic already.

When he finished his preparations for a – maybe time-wise not so far away – hunt, he opened the door to his grandmother’s old cupboards, looking through his herbs for sealed Mountain Ash. When he found the small bag, he pushed it into his pocket, closed the door and was about to leave when he halted in his step, his eyes catching the rune covered silver dagger he usually used for cutting the herbs.

No, he eventually decided. He had to deal with the werewolf first and a real weapon reeking of hunter was not the best decision. The Mountain Ash was risky enough. He climbed up the ladder and closed the hatch before putting everything back in their place, rushing into the bathroom and _scrubbing_ his hands raw to get any treacherous traces of gun powder or herbs or whatever off his body.

Then he grudgingly drove up to the police station to clean up this mess.

Motherfucker.

He wasn’t even sure what he was supposed to tell them. Heck, he didn’t even know what he had told them in the first place. However, by the time he arrived at the station he had eventually figured out a rather elaborate explanation, before he decided to discard everything because it was _Stiles_. Stiles was crazy and unpredictable. Man, Stiles would get someone arrested just for eating the wrong cereals in the morning.

Determined, he entered the building and Tara’s pretty head snapped up in surprise. He couldn’t even get one word out before she jumped up from her chair. “No!” she cried, pointing accusingly at him. “ _No_! I don’t want to hear it! No! You turn around and leave. _Now_.”

Stiles blinked innocently. “I’m—”

“I said no! _Go away._ ”

“I’m… sorry?”

Tara looked like she wanted to murder him. Something he had become far too familiar with due to recent events. “Stiles, _you promised_.”

“ _I’m sorry._ ”

“You swore. That this wasn’t a prank. You swore, Stiles. _On your jeep._ ”

“I certainly did no such thing.”

“I have the tape, for God’s sake,” Tara cried out, incredulous.

Stiles stopped himself from asking for a copy. Instead he slowly approached her, palms facing her in a gesture of surrender. “Derek and I, we’ve been fighting,” he said in way of explaining. The deputy just covered her ears. “Don’t. Wanna. Hear,” she puffed out, emphasizing every syllable and stalked out of the room. Stiles followed her. “Tara, _please_.”

“No. Nononononono _NO_.”

They walked into the squad room and behind one of the windows Stiles could make out Derek, sitting on a bench, back to the newcomers and fumbling with the handcuffs as if he was considering just destroying them with his inhuman strength. The second Stiles entered the room however, the man’s hands stopped working and his head jerked around. When Stiles caught Derek’s eyes he winked at him, relieved that he was still in human form and only glared at Stiles with the same amount of killer intent he had already gotten accustomed to.

“As I was saying, we have been fighting,” Stiles started again and returned his attention back to the woman.

“No, you haven’t,” Tara denied, sitting down behind one of the desks and busying herself with something. Probably with nothing. “And you’re not allowed in here.”

“But we did fight,” Stiles assured, ignoring her last comment.

“No you _didn’t_.”

“Tara.”

She suddenly stopped doing whatever she had attempted to do in order to ignore Stiles. “I’ve been taking your phone call serious, okay? Even with the Madonna impersonation!”

He groaned.

Oh man, he was never going to live that one down.

Jesus, _Stiles_.

“So what, you were doing Madonna in your room and he accidentally saw you and now you’re all out to get him back for that?”

“No, not really.”

She looked him up and down, then folded her hands in front of her chest. “Let’s assume you have been fighting.” Awww, Stiles knew she would cave in. “About what?”

“Marshmallows.”

“Marshmallows,” Tara echoed toneless.

“He bought the wrong ones. He always does. Because he’s a stingy bastard. I keep telling him that there are things worth spending more money on. Marshmallows definitely one of these things. Especially strawberry marshmallows.”

“Strawberry marshmallows.”

Stiles nodded enthusiastically. “We got into a huge argument about him being a cheapskate and he called me high maintenance and other cruel names and then it somehow escalated so I kicked him out.”

Tara looked at him in disbelief, then to Derek through the window, back to Stiles. Then she jumped up and whacked him _with the fucking phone directory_ over his head.

_Ouch._

“You said he has been stalking you _for days_.”

“I was wrong.”

_“What?”_

“I meant, I lied,” Stiles corrected with a cough.

There was a very long moment Tara just stared at him, before she hid her face in her hands and gave a very long-suffering sigh, falling back on her chair. “How in the world. I really can’t deal with something like this anymore. This is insane. What was he even _doing_ at your place?”

“He’s crashing on my couch. Which is why, after I threw him out, he had nowhere else to go. What with his old home not being a home anymore. Or even much of a house.”

“Or even his _property_.”

“Right—What?” Stiles’ asked alarmed.

“Oh, so you know each other good enough that you let him sleep on your couch, but he won’t tell you that he was arrested for trespassing just a few days ago?” Tara eyed him sceptically.

“No, well, you know…” _What?_ This was the first he had ever heard of that. So Derek was already _known_ to the police? “I didn’t know. He just said he needed a place to stay and I thought, well, who would want to live in those ruins, you know?”

Fuck, Derek Hale. Fuck werewolves. Fuck his fucking _life_.

“Why was he asking _you_?”

Great, now they thought he was housing a _criminal_.

“Childhood friends,” Stiles deadpanned, turning the conversation back around again. “He was arrested for trespassing?”

“Well, it’s nothing you have to worry about.”

“It’s not?” Stiles eyebrows almost shot up to his hairline because when people said stuff like that it always made him anxious.

“No, we just got a call from a woman, saying she saw someone at the Hale mansion. We thought they were some kids, had trouble with them before so we sent someone over. He said he didn’t know it was county property now, so it wasn’t too bad, but you know, with what is going on right now.” Stiles could barely stop himself from looking at Derek. “The dead body. And now the missing case, too.”

“Missing case?”

She raised one eyebrow, then smirked at him and leaned back in her seat. “Someone hasn’t been eavesdropping on our communication lately, huh? Not that I approve of your not so secretive invasion, but what? Are you busy?”

This time Stiles really turned around to look at Derek, accusingly squinting his eyes at the man. “Yeah, kinda distracted,” he just said. Oh, if the werewolf had been going around kidnapping people because he suspected them he was so going _to kill him_. Tara let her eyes flicker between them, before looking away.

“Who’s missing?”

“He didn’t tell you that, _too_?”

“What?”

“Stiles, are you _really_ friends with him?”

“Yeah, I told you, we go way back, like twenty million miles way back. He used to live here, I know you know. And he’s not the most sociable person, so it’s not like he likes to talk about whatever’s been bothering him. And I _knew_ something was up when he put milk in his coffee even though he takes it darker than black, like it’s representing his soul, he’s drama that way. It’s just a feeling you get, when you know someone really good? You know what I mean, don’t you?”

She probably didn’t and she wasn’t acting like she did. But that was okay, because anyone who understood Stiles should make appointments for hourly sessions with a very good therapists. Like seven times a week.

“Stiles—”

“Who’s missing?” He wanted to ask. He just wanted to ask ‘It’s his uncle, right’? But he _knew_ Derek was listening in and Stiles wasn’t supposed to _know_ about his family circumstances. Or maybe he was?

Wait, why _shouldn’t_ Stiles know?

Heck, the second Stiles got home from getting dragged into the woods he would google the shit out of _any_ stranger that attacked him in his own house. Stiles was ticking that way, so yeah, it was probably stupid to assume he didn’t know.

“His uncle? Is it Peter?”

There was a crash from behind him and Stiles spun around, surveying the area and Tara stood up from her chair, looking for the source but there was nothing. Stiles watched Derek’s back, but the man was still sitting where he had been minutes ago, shoulders hunched.

Tara sat back down, glanced at Stiles as she worried her lip, before she leaned forward. And he knew she was going to tell him _everything_. Jesus, Stiles should get an _Oscar_ for best actor or something. And he would totally get one. Eat your heart out, Leo, Stiles was going to get himself an award! Even if he had to steal it.

“Yes,” she said. He had to suppress a freaking victory dance at that bit of information he had tried to coax out of Melissa _for days_. “We brought him in for questioning. _Again_. That was the second time. And when you called and talked about the Camaro Chester just knew it was him, so he left the room in a flurry.”

Chester was a God, man. A _Deputy God_.

He loved Chester.

“And now you come in here, telling me it was just a _prank_? Stiles, this is,” her hand drummed at the underside of her table, “this doesn’t look good, okay? Not for you. Not for him.”

“He’s not a suspect, is he?”

“No, we just asked him a few questions. It’s not that we thought he did it. He hadn’t been in Beacon Hills at that time. We called his work and university, checked his flight and the time he rented the car in Sacramento and they all confirmed that he couldn’t have been here for any of those things. We just wanted to know if he knew where his uncle could have gone. Basically, his timing just sucked.”

Yeah. It sucked. _Big time_.

“What is he even doing back here?” she asked, going for casual and the boy was pretty sure she wasn’t asking because of professional interest. Not that the whole conversation had been strictly professional because he was very sure that everything was somehow classified information. Or maybe she just figured he would get his hands on this information anyway if he wanted. Which was true, but well, a little pretense wouldn’t hurt.

“He came to visit.”

“Visiting you?”

“No, his family grave.”

Tara gaped at him. And again the _phone directory_! That book was like twenty pounds, okay? This was a severe case of bodily harm right there! Or abuse of power! “ _And you threw him out_?” she yelled, incredulous. “Over _marshmallows_? And then got him _arrested, too_? Stiles! Who does that?!”

“I’m a horrible person,” Stiles replied sternly and with a nod, ignoring the sting in the back of his head as his hands touched the spot. “A foolish, insane, horrible person and I’m sorry.”

Tara sighed in defeat, waving him to one of the seats and then finally started to get the paper work together, all the while grumbling and mumbling petty insults. Stiles deserved them, he decided, and nodded in agreement every time the words ‘demented madman’, ‘lunatic kook’, ‘nutso wacko’, ‘haywire madman’ or, his personal favorite, ‘nutty psycho-ceramic’ left her mouth.

It took almost half an hour before they could let Derek go. There was a lot of apologizing going on, questions whether he wanted to press charge and whatever deputies were supposed to do when falsely arresting a person accused of doing something _they actually did_ at some point, but were told otherwise after being told half of the real story. Derek didn’t look at him – or them –, when he brushed past Stiles sprawled in one of the chairs, waiting languidly. The brunette just shrugged it off, got up and followed the man, waving at Tara who groaned in reply and then proceeded to ignore him.

_Rude._

“Just so we are clear,” the teenager said when Derek reached the parking lot and then realized that his car wouldn’t be there. According to the hands balling to fists, which he eyed warily. “Stiles is an idiot and everyone is sorry, so you are not going on a killing spree, are you?”

“No, _Derek_ is not,” Derek replied as he whirled around, glaring at him.

Stiles had his mouth already open, ready to throw a myriad of words at him but closed it again when he heard the answer, blinking in confusion as it sunk in. And almost made his brain freeze.

“Wow… you just—” he stopped as the glare significantly intensified. “Alright, okay. Not going there. Just, well, I’m… glad you didn’t, you know, leave on your own. Or… worse.” Derek just glowered at him. “But I guess that’s not an option. Right. People could find out. And everything.” The hunter was giving Derek a lot of credits just for listening to him. He could see how ridiculously pissed of the man was at Stiles which was kind of understandable. If their positions were reversed he would have broken his nose. In fact, he was contemplating just doing that when he got home. Some kind of self-flagellation was appropriate, he was sure. The werewolf however was at least giving him a chance to run away before going after him. Not that he used it. “If it helps, I thought you were stalking me. Turned out it wasn’t you.”

This piqued Derek’s interest.

“Tell me… uh, did you hurt someone since you are here?” He had no means to tell if the werewolf was being honest but the brunette praised himself as some kind of intuition kind of guy. His intuition was mostly right. Not always, apparently, but _mostly_. And he just needed to know how far he could _trust_ the man. Derek didn’t answer. He just stared at Stiles blankly and… maybe a little bit insulted? Was that frown an insulted frown? An angry confused insulted scowl? Maybe it was a do-you-even-have-to-ask-of-course frown?

“Verbal, dude, _verbal_. I can’t read your mind for Christ’s sake and I’m not going to hold conversations with your admittedly very expressive eyebrows.”

“What if?” Derek suddenly asked, almost startling him with the words, chin held high in a clear challenge. Oh, someone was fishing for information, Stiles thought, rolling his eyes.

“Then I’ll have to find those Hunters and tell them,” the boy said innocently but there was suddenly a look on Derek’s face that was almost overconfident and slightly… amused? Stiles went for amused. Amused was always a good sign.

“You lie, when you’re telling the truth,” Derek suddenly said and it was almost philosophical. “And when you’re telling the truth, you lie.”

“And that did not make any sense, mind you. So back to my question?”

“No.”

“No, we are not going back to my question? Or no, you did not hurt anyone?”

“You decide.”

“What the fuck, man?” Stiles snapped, closing in a few steps. “What are trying to pull?”

“Figuring you out.”

“By getting all Dostoevsky on me?”

Derek snorted at that, and Stiles looked him up and down. If Derek hadn’t been in front of his house to observe him, he had come to get something from him. Which meant he needed help – one way or another. Seeing as there was no one Derek could trust in this town, of course he would turn to the only person who stuck with him through the hunt – probably even if he was expecting to get betrayed.

Stiles raised one eyebrow. “Have you found the nurse?” he suddenly asked, voice low but he knew the werewolf would understand him. “I think I’ve found her.” Or something from her. Or something that had to do with her. Or with nothing at all and was completely unrelated, but he doubted it. There probably was a connection even if he couldn’t see it yet. “She might be what I thought was you.” Or not. “I don’t know who else would do all that lurking and watching thing.”

Derek looked confused.

He couldn’t hold it against him.

“Do you think,” he started to chew on his lips, eyes drifting around as he tried to find the right words without letting information slip, or let his _lack_ of information slip. “She was the one who called? To get you arrested the first time. To, like, lure you away to do something?”

“To erase that rune?”

“Yeah, the rune,” he repeated, tense. “Why… do you think she did that?”

Derek just looked at him.

Not. Helping. Much.

“Maybe we could, you know, try to work together?” Derek’s eyes widened. Yeah, it sounded crazy, even to his own ears. But the fact remained, right now, Derek Hale was the closest thing to an ally he had. He was sure Derek thought Stiles was the biggest threat in all of Beacon Hills. But he was sure the werewolf would still work with him. Eventually. “I mean, I really don’t get what’s going on and the fact that you didn’t stalk me for the last few days means you have done your own research, right? So, maybe if we helped each other out—”

“How did you know about my uncle.”

Oh, he was prepared for that on. “Google magic.”

Derek raised his eyebrows at that. “And the rune?”

Yeah, the effing _rune_ , he cried out internally, but only eyed Derek warily, before moving closer. “What about it?”

“What do you know?”

“I, uh,” he wetted his lips, hands helplessly to his side.

“Don’t say nothing.” Derek warned with a low growl.

“I can’t… remember what it looked like?” He tried instead, and was almost ready to throw the mountain ash when Derek advanced with fast steps, brows narrowed in anger and his eyes _seething_. Like how could eyes do that? But he stopped a few steps in front of him and pulled a piece of paper out of his pockets and showed it to Stiles. “You draw it and you can’t remember?” the werewolf snarled. Stiles’ eyes were fixed on the sheet. It was crumbled, torn at a few places and at the bottom he could make out the Beacon Hills Sheriff Department’s logo, which told him that either one of the deputies suddenly developed a sudden interest in Celtic runes or that it was really Stiles’ and then his eyes widened and he grabbed for the paper, tearing it out of Derek’s hands and staring at it with wide eyes.

Shit.

“It’s…”

_Shit._

“It’s one of my mothers’,” he eventually finished.

There was a flash of red, a snarl and then Derek was gone.

“Try not to kill anyone,” he called after the empty place. “Especially not me…” he added. Because he was reserving that right for himself. He thought he had earned that right after coping with himself for _years_.

Stiles climbed into his jeep, more than certain that Derek hadn’t left him on his own but was probably following him back to the house. He looked too interested in finding out about that thing in his backyard, and really, he should stop saying that because that was just creepy as hell. Oliver. He’d just call it Oliver, because that sounded like an old friend. Oliver had been the name of his scarecrow. It was perfect.

When he returned home, he threw a quick look around. No Derek far and wide. “You can sleep on the roof if you have to,” he whispered into the air, sure that if Derek was there, he’d caught on to the words. “But don’t enter the house, man, because that’s just fucking creepy. Not that sleeping on the roof isn’t. It’s just slightly less creepy.”

Stiles thought he could hear a low growl or maybe he was just delusional – not for the first time this week – or maybe he just kind of _wished_ for Derek to be there. A werewolf in his neighborhood wasn’t as freaky as whatever was going on right now. Werewolves, he could deal. Spooky things, not. Which was why, when he spotted that goddamned _thing_ \- Oliver, Stiles, _Oliver_ – again, he eventually decided to send a message to his aunt, telling her that he was in over his head and needed help ASAP. He wondered why Derek hadn’t come forward, smelling that something was off. Stiles figured it was because the werewolf had, infact, not followed him home as he had expected.

Stupid werewolf.

 

Two hours later Melissa called from work. Of course they had called her. He wouldn’t even let her talk and instead just launched right into an explanation that didn’t make this as crazy as it actually was.

Melissa was not impressed.

She wanted Derek to come for dinner, since they obviously have been friends _for years_ without her knowledge. Or Scott’s knowledge.

He cursed under his breath.

How could Stiles have even for a second believe that getting Derek arrested was the solution to all his problems?

_How?_


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone reading this! My beta, as always, for doing such a fabulous job, Mulder200 for always leaving a comment, for the kudos and yeah, in general, for keeping up with the story.
> 
> And guys, you would really help me out if you leave a comment about what you think is going on, your theories or whatever, or simple questions so that I know what I have to address in future chapters. There might be stuff in here I take for granted or as known and then might neglect to explain. So drop me a line, please. It would really help me. =)

Derek decided that Stiles Stilinski wasn’t crazy.

No.

He was a freaking nutjob.

Case in point: he got Derek arrested. And then bailed him out. Just a few hours later. Without even bothering to come up with a decent lie. How that had even worked out in their favor, Derek really didn’t want to know. Maybe the deputies were sweet on Stiles. Maybe they felt sorry for him. Maybe they were used to it. The latter being particularly disturbing. Whatever the reason, Derek was led to the undeniable conclusion that the boy was a prime example for a head gone completely wrong.

And that they had to work together.

Even if he was still trying to avoid that.

Not that he had a real choice in that matter. After a few days of unsuccessful attempts to figure this all out he knew that he was completely over his head and didn’t even knew where to start. So he tied up some loose ends. He got the car he had leased in Sacramento picked up. Now that he used Eric’s Camaro he didn’t need it anymore and it would get the man from the leasing firm off his back.

Then he called Crazy Millie, telling her that he wasn’t going to come back. He had hated working in the law firms archives anyway and the only reason he had stayed there was because he could come and go as he pleased. He felt a pang of guilt to spring that bit of information on her. She had been the only one he felt remotely comfortable working with and now she was the one who had to break the news to his narrow-minded, choleric, thank God soon to be ex-boss.

Derek’s guilt didn’t last long, having had to make room for irritation as he attempted to drop out of college after quitting the job. Because the secretary just. wouldn’t. let. him. Instead she willfully put him on break for the rest of the semester, urging him to seriously reconsider the decision, pointing out the possibility of a gap year, before hanging up without further ado.

Apparently, Derek couldn’t even properly quit college.

His family could only be more disappointed in him if he accidentally fell of a cliff while chasing butterflies like a playful cub. It wasn’t even a lack of trying that kept him at a standstill. No, he had tried to get the clues together. He had spent a day chasing Laura’s trail, searching the motel she had stayed at, digging through trash after the owner had thrown all her things out when she never returned to pay for the motel bill. What he had found was a picture of a dead deer with a spiral painted on its fur. It had her scent all over the surface so he knew that it was hers. He didn’t know why, though. Where she had found it or how she had gotten a hold of it. What it meant to her. Why it had led her back to Beacon Hills.

After that he had tried to gather the remaining information, putting them together like a puzzle. Yet, it looked less like a picture coming together than a FAQ without the answers.

For instance:

One: Laura and Uncle Peter were dead. Stiles and a possible second party he would just call Axe Nurse for the hell of it were most likely somehow involved. As bystanders, as culprits, as instigators, as henchmen – he didn’t know. Maybe they really were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Stiles sounded plenty convincing in his explanation. Sociopaths usually did, though. The axe Stiles had thrown at him – actually literally manically thrown at him like Derek was expected to catch it – was useless. It had lost any trace it might have had left on it from the reputed nurse, exposed to the air and Stiles. Most of all Stiles.

Two: Stiles was insane and knew more than he’d let on no matter how sincere he might have sounded. He had been successfully lying to him about the hobby room, the garden and practically everything about his dad and Derek had not been able to detect those lies. If he hadn’t stalked Stiles for a few days in school and listened in on the chatter of the people around him he probably wouldn’t have realized it at all. Though, it wasn’t until during his third arrest that he found out that the boy _technically_ hadn’t been lying to him. And he only knew that because the deputies seemed to like talking about Stiles and his family circumstances, which were rather complicated and just underlined the fact that the boy was in some dire need of sessions with a very good psychiatrist.

Three: Hunters were in Beacon Hills. He assumed they could have (maybe) killed Laura and Peter even if he couldn’t pick up their scents. It’s been years since he had to deal with Hunters and he wouldn’t put it past them to develop something that might hide their traces. Maybe some herb that covered a distinct scent? Who knew. Hunters – the right kind – were resourceful. And if anyone was resourceful it was the Argents, who conveniently appeared out of thin air the second a woman mauled by mountain lions had Beacon Hills in an uproar. Of course. Derek decided to just stay out of their way for the time being, even though he knew he couldn’t avoid them forever. Sooner or later they would hunt him down and make a move.

Four: Stiles’ mother had been a druid or witch, which, by hereditary, made the boy a druid or witch, too. Maybe? Maybe not. Derek didn’t know much about them. He knew the Hale pack used to have an advisor, as Laura had called it, an emissary, but he never cared to find out who it had been. Derek snarled at his own foolish teenage persona. There were several reasons why he hated his past self. This was just adding to the pile. However, the woman in the picture of Stiles’ bedroom had been vaguely familiar so for all he knew his mother could have been the Hale’s emissary. Which... made Stiles his emissary? Was that something that was handed down in generations? Were they chosen? Did they have negotiations over a cup of tea? Was there _bonding_ involved?

Anyway, Derek was pretty sure Stiles had healed him. As an Alpha his healing power exceeded the one he had as an Beta. It still wouldn’t explain how the wolfsbane wound has healed in less than an hour, which was why he assumed that Stiles had his hands on that. Literally. With witch-druid magic or some other way. And he knew it had to do with the calling of his wolf, however _that_ had happened.

Five: The rune was a big question mark. As soon as he knew that Stiles was in school he went to check the fences surrounding the house for a symbol looking vaguely the same. There wasn’t. So he looked at the frames of the doors and windows. Nothing. He entered the house and poked around for books about Celtic symbols, or runes or something else that could point him in the right direction. Still nothing.

It was, mildly put, frustrating and annoying.

So he resumed his research at the library he snuck into at night. Not that he was expecting much seeing as the room had approximately ten shelves of which four were occupied by romantic novels and another four with classical literature. It wasn’t what Derek was used but beggars couldn't be choosers. He wasn’t expecting a whole section dedicated to mythology and history in a small town like Beacon Hills. Hoped for? Sure. It would have been nice. And made things easier.

Derek’s life was neither nice nor easy.

He walked over to the shelves housing a variety of books from picture books for children on the lower levels and erotic novels at the top and somewhere in between cooking books and, yep, history, folklore and other myths.

Derek rolled his eyes at the description, picked out the books he deemed slightly informative and threw them on the nearest table. He was used to libraries with shelves from bottom to ceiling, whole _stories_ dedicated to a topic, sincere quietness, the smell of old books lingering in the air, silent whispers and warm light. Derek had always felt at home between the history, folklore and mythology departments, choosing to use books instead of technology for his research. Most of all because the artificial light of the screen hurt his eyes more often than not.

Yet it would take him thirteen hours back by car. If traffic was light. Maybe a trip he was willing to do if it meant he could solve this awkward mystery. He should really consider it, seeing as he wasn’t entirely surprised that he came out of that research session completely empty-handed.

Good thing Derek had learned to lower his expectations.

Six: And that was the only thing he was completely sure of: He couldn’t trust Stiles. There was something disturbingly wrong about him – his mental health not taken into account. And that part wasn’t only annoying and confusing but also a tad bit scary, which made Derek unsurprisingly angry. He shouldn’t be afraid of a sixteen year old, but the hairs at the back of his neck stood up whenever he thought about the boy.

As was Derek’s habit, he hadn’t thought things through and wasn’t entirely sure what he had been expecting from Stiles the day he drove up to his house, simultaneously talking himself out of asking for any hints and admitting that he found nothing. Neither the scent of the woman, who seemed to have disappeared from the face of the world, nor the origin of the rune. And how Peter was kidnapped from the hospital wasn’t even in his realm of perception. So yes, in short, he found _absolutely nothing._

Fact was: Derek had been arguing with himself for about twenty minutes when a police car pulled over in front of him and, as he had looked up at the sudden intrusion, noticed a distinct figure behind the curtains of the Stilinski house.

He wasn’t sure if Stiles was plain stupid or just completely nuts.

Definitely both.

He didn’t even resist, just throwing an angry glare at the shadow which wasn’t lost on the deputy who guided him to the cruiser. They kept on questioning him about his relationship to Stiles. Derek got the slight feeling they insinuated pedophilic tendencies. He couldn’t even laugh about that. Instead he just scowled at them, internally horrified because he really didn’t need something like that in his records.

On the other hand, it was partially amusing seeing them go through the good cop/bad cop routine that Derek assumed only worked in movies. They had been… nicer when they had questioned him about the nameless and faceless corpse. Or about Peter’s whereabouts.

The deputies realized soon that Derek wasn’t very forthcoming with any information and Derek knew they couldn’t hold him in long based on nothing.

For all he knew he could have told them that his car had broken down and he had just been waiting for someone to pick him up.

End of story: after a last desperate attempt at forcing Derek to open up, they just sighed in defeat and put him in the hall, chaining him to a chair, while debating what they were going to do now.

Approximately two hours later the mad stuff happened.

Which was when Stiles flounced into the station with an air of nervousness, amusement, anger and confidence, a mixture Derek thought was impossible, and then the bastard had the cheek to _wave_ at him. It was all Derek could do not to crack the handcuffs. Though he did bend them when they started to talk about his uncle. Slightly. Okay maybe they had to throw them away and the officer who had to take them off stared at the twisted metal in fear for about half a minute before he very, very slowly and with as much distance as possible to Derek’s whole body, took them off.

Derek tried to look unthreateningly.

It made the man even more nervous.

Derek growled.

The deputy grabbed the handcuffs and ran off with a shriek. He just rolled his eyes, touching the bruised skin at his wrists, before he stated to ignore everyone trying to talk to him, brushing them off with an obvious hand gesture.

He had bigger problems than calling a lawyer and pressing charges.

No, Derek would just wring Stiles' neck.

It was easier.

And less paperwork.

He wasn’t even inclined to re-evaluate his idea after the boy had followed him outside the station with a cocky smirk on his lips he probably wasn’t even aware of. Information first, _then_ wringing neck, he told himself, listening to whatever pieces of information Stiles might let slip. Derek had to take what he could get. Every detail. Something that might help him make sense of this whole mess. The situation was evidently so bad that even the boy started to freak out about something hiding in his bushes like a nightmare. He actually offered to work together. With him.

As if.

Derek wasn’t prepared to contemplate that.

Correction: he wasn’t prepared to think about that _anymore._ Not if he had to worry about getting stabbed in the back – literally. But still, interest peaked, he followed the boy home. On his own. At a safe distance. He had to pick up the Camaro anyway and he was sure Stiles knew he was there somewhere. Especially after he told him to sleep on the roof. Wringing his neck was becoming more and more appealing.

Derek couldn’t risk getting caught again so he just waited outside the Camaro, hidden, before anyone could come up with the great idea to call the cops. Again. Derek really didn’t need a permanent record for all he cared about it. Especially not with an underlying tone of watching little children on the play ground. Laura would have laughed so hard if she had heard about that. And then slapped him over the head, telling him to fix this.

“It was a prank. A bad one,” Stiles said a couple hours later with a tired voice and Derek strained his ears to listen in, could even hear the lie in these words. Apparently, it wasn’t that Derek had lost the ability to read people. It was just that the truth was never easy and someone like Stiles was sure able to bend it at will if he had to. Derek had to learn that intuition, never his biggest forte in the first place, was completely lost on Stiles who was sending out so many mixed signals they made him self-conscious. In the bad way.

“I’m sorry. Yeah, I _know_ it was stupid. Don’t tell me that.” Derek didn’t know who he was talking to, as the boy had forgone all manner, not bothering to greet, but instead just started into a rant about how sorry he was. The other person’s voice was slightly brazen, female, harsh with a subjacent warmth. “His name’s Derek. Of course you know him. Okay, maybe you don’t. It’s enough that I know him.” There was a figure at the windows, pushing the curtains to the side and then looking out. “No, he’s _not_ a mass murderer.” Derek should be offended by the sudden staccato in the boy’s heartbeat. Stiles wasn’t even trusting his own words but drawled them out like it was his right. Sociopath. Somewhat. “Or a stalker. He’s just all grumpy and snarky, but deep inside he’s a big fluffy oaf. Considering he’s totally into marshmallows. I was just, you know, angry?”

The man rolled his eyes.

He should just turn around and leave the teenager to his own devices. See if he cared if they find him dead the next day.

“ _No,_ ” Stiles suddenly yelled, “I will _not_ bring him to dinner tomorrow. I’m not even sure if he’ll be here anyway.” The werewolf groaned. “Are you bribing me with _pie?_ We are not even that close. Yeah, sleeping on my couch close. Because child hood friends. Right. But well… still no. Never. No. You’d just scare him. Like a lot. Good night.”

There was an exaggerated cry and something that sounded suspiciously like a head hitting a wall. Derek shouldn’t get used to someone acting crazy but he felt himself strangely caring less.

At the end of the night he jumped into his car and drove off. Whoever had watched Stiles hadn’t come back and seriously, Derek needed some time for himself. He wandered the woods that day, working out just to keep himself busy, steering clear from the forbidden grounds and staying as far away from anything Stiles-related as he possibly could because, nope. Just no.

At early afternoon he returned to Stiles’ house, watching neighbors visiting him on and off. Derek wondered if they were making sure that Stiles was fine with a stranger sleeping on his couch or if it was usual behavior bordering on overly enthusiastic neighborly friendliness – and seeing as Stiles wasn’t that surprised about the sudden visits it might be. Beacon Hills was a small town, long-time residents knew each other and were partially considered even closer than family. The Hale family might have been slightly eccentric to the rest of Beacon Hills but they were still respected and welcomed wherever they showed up. It had been a nice feeling back then. Now it just made things complicated.

Though Stiles had been the only one who immediately recognized him.

The deputies had to take a look at his ID to realize who they were talking to. The older ones letting their eyes shy away, the younger ones just watching curiously. At least they were tight-lipped enough not to shout his presence from the rooftop, therefore they were the only ones who knew he was back. Well, them and the hunters, obviously.

Considering his current social status, he really shouldn't do, what he was being accused off.

Stalking.

Just great.

To be on the safe side he had left the car in the forest, hidden behind the family house in their old shed, as he waited, patiently for silent foot steps. For a familiar scent, for something. But he heard nothing and he smelt nothing. And the only thing that stirred him from his daydreaming, was when an elderly woman, who left the house next to the Stilinski. She had a chihuahua pocketed in a bag on her side and a wrapped casserole dish firmly in both hands as she left the front yard and marched over to her neighbors, dangerously balancing the dish one-handedly as she rang the Stilinski’s bell.

Stiles opened the door with a look of barely contained disgust on his face. Derek marginally concentrated on their conversation. The woman went on and on about how everyone knew how much Stiles was into the healthy lifestyle, and because she had made so much of her famous spinach lasagna she was just going to leave half of it with Stiles. Derek snorted, while Stiles lied his way through the formalities, telling her how much he loved her cooking, however showed genuine gleeful excitement as he told her he would gladly share it with his father as soon as he came back from work.

The woman just patted him on the shoulder, pinched him once in the cheek and told him to stay safe before she turned on the door steps and headed back. After that it became quiet. Stiles had another discussion on the phone with someone called Melissa, from the voice probably the same person that had called the day before, then talked to himself while doing homework, yelled at someone over Halo and Derek decided to stop his eavesdropping.

Hours passed and Derek had been tempted to just leave or take a nap, wished he had brought at least a good book along to waste time for the umpteenth time, when he could hear Stiles waking up and then leaving his bed. He ignored it, was about to return his attention back to a TV a couple of houses down the street where whatever strange guy was watching reruns of Maria La Del Barrio. If nothing good came out of his observations he could at least keep up with his slightly rusty Spanish. Even if the telenovela was beyond good taste.

Derek was just debating what was worse: listening to Soraya’s screaming monologue as she caught Nandito kissing her stepdaughter – on the cheek if he remembered correctly from his astonishingly pointless Spanish class – or the prickling in his legs he was growing more and more aware of, when he suddenly noticed Stiles’ panic. Then he heard a crash from the boy’s room. His head snapped in the direction of the ruckus, listening intently, but Stiles was the only one in the house.

Suspiciously he approached the fence leading to the back door and leapt over it, his eyes drifting around as he tried to find out what made the boy panic, nose sniffing the air to catch whatever he might have missed. Yet there was nothing but Stiles’ cursing in his room.

And then silence.

After a quiet moment which Derek used to wander a few restless steps around in irritation, a window popped open and Stiles pushed his head out, eyes fixed on something further away, before he looked down at him in wonder, then back to whatever he was noticing. “Why are you just standing there?” he shouted after a few seconds.

Derek just knotted his brows.

He was confused.

Very confused.

“What are you doing?” Stiles bellowed again. The head was gone now, replaced by feet on the stairs before the back door was flung wide open and Stiles rushed past him. Derek stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, noticing the panic still wafting off him like a steady wave. “It’s right there! It’s. right. there!” Stiles yelled, pointing accusingly at nothing but darkness and trees.

“There’s nothing,” Derek heard himself say.

Because there was nothing.

Stiles stood next to him, hands lose to his side. “It’s there.”

He wasn’t lying.

“It definitely… it’s trying to talk to me. It’s…”

“There is no one stalking you,” Derek said and only got a heated ‘Fuck you’ thrown back at him. “It’s in your head,” he continued unperturbed, “just like everything else.”

That snapped Stiles’ mouth shut. Derek could feel the anger coming from the boy now as he glared at him, hands fisted into tight balls. “Oh right! The fact that you are apparently a _fucking werewolf_ must be all in my head, _too_ then, yeah?”

“It’s in your head,” Derek asserted his statement, letting Stiles’ shoulder go. The teenager stared at him, emotion shifting from incredulous to defeated for a fraction of a second and then to furious, before his lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowing, as he headed for the fence again. Like he was on a mission to prove Derek wrong.

Derek clasped his wrist.

Stiles snarled at him.

Derek arched one eyebrow, but didn’t let go.

“You really… can’t see it?” the brunette eventually asked, his free hand brushing over his buzz-cut, clawing into the back of the head, knuckles turning white in the dark. “Because I think it’s laughing. And it’s all static and—Tell me you hear it at least!”

Derek tried to listen closely, but there was nothing. Absolutely nothing besides the rustling of leaves in the wind, tiny animals shifting in the mire, the howling of an owl, the quarreling of a couple, Soraya still kicking up a fuss and stabbing Nandito with scissors and somewhere to his right a radio with very bad reception, but he doubted it was the static Stiles could hear.

“If it’s in my head,” Stiles started after a while, suddenly calm, “it can’t do anything to me.”

Derek just watched him, uncertain what he was supposed to answer, how to handle crazy. The only insane person he knew was Crazy Millie and she was called Crazy Millie because she was sometimes babbling stuff no one could make any sense of. Sometimes she would suddenly fall asleep without any forewarning, no matter the time or place, whether she was standing or sitting or mid-walk and Derek more than once had to rush to her side to catch her before she crashed to the floor.

He had always assumed that there was more to it than a simple hardcore case of narcolepsy. The words she was always mumbling under her breath, to human ears inaudible, always turned out to have a meaning, like a premonition.

 _If_ Stiles was a druid-witch-hunter-hybrid-thing, _maybe_ there was more to him than met the eye, too. It would explain a lot.

“And all I hear is noises, anyway. Nothing con—” His voice suddenly faltered, before he blinked, his head snapping back to the … something? Stiles clenched his jaw so tight his teeth were grinding. With stoic silence, the brunette tore his watch from the arm and started to wiggle his hand from Derek’s unyielding grasp.

“You.”

Derek waited a few seconds, before he raised his brow in question, when nothing followed that single word. Stiles continued to struggle until his hand was finally pried free with a contented ‘hah!’ and Derek didn’t bother to catch it again. “Are you going to help me out?” he started again, watching him, askance, “Trying to work together?”

“No,” he growled in reply and Stiles pushed his lower lip out as if he was about to let out a petulant stream of pouting indignation. Instead he just turned around fixing his eyes on… _still_ nothing. His mouth curled into a smirk when he glanced back to Derek from the corner of his eyes and Derek was pretty sure this could only mean trouble.

He growled in warning but the boy was already out of his grasp, leaping over the fence, one hand supporting his body weight as the legs flew over with an agility that Derek would have never given him credit for. For a few long seconds the boy just stood on the other side, tightly holding on to the wood.

Derek just stood there.

Confused. Again.

He could smell the nervous sweat, could hear the faster than usual pounding heart, the uncertainty and curiosity and partly, fear from Stiles. Controlled fear, though, like the boy was used to situations he had to face head on, where he had to keep his emotions in check and to fight the innate urge to just turn around and run off. Instead standing his ground and walking steadily ahead without looking back.

Stiles hissed as he took a sharp breath in, letting it out, and at the same time releasing his hold on the fence, staggering a few feet forward, hand curiously, tentatively reaching out. Suddenly his whole body stiffened, a gasp catching in his throat. Derek took a few steps forward the same moment Stiles spun on his heels, panic in his eyes as he was aiming for the fence to jump back over but dropped to his knees, clutching his head. It was absurdly silent, he could hear Stiles sudden erratic breathing, quiet wheezing like he was getting choked.

Derek didn’t hesitate when he breached the few steps, crossed the fence and picked the boy up. He looked around, trying to see what Stiles had – maybe – seen, but there was absolutely _nothing_. Yet Stiles heartbeat was fast and suddenly slow, no almost gone, his hands clawing into Derek’s jacket as he tried to catch air. Derek half-panicked as he cradled Stiles in his arms, kicking the gate open. He never had to deal with a stopping heart, or with someone suffocating on air and he was slightly anxious as he hurried back to the house but before he reached the patio the boy suddenly gasped, his eyes snapping open, back arching up as his heart beat picked up speed again. Stiles was looking wildly at him, pushing against his chest, elbowing his jaw and twisting in his arms with a vehemence that gave Derek no other choice than to drop him unceremoniously on the ground.

Stiles landed with a groan on the damp grass, coughing and simultaneously fighting for more air, choking and then wincing in pain as he turned around and on his back, eyes tightly shut, mumbling a string of hollow words and curses before his voice abruptly stopped and his head flipped around, glaring at Derek. For a second the werewolf thought Stiles would say something, but then he was just staring blearily into the sky while Derek watched him, still waiting for an explanation.

An explanation he was not about to get.

However, something in his head was replaying what Stiles had done before he had left the backyard. Was focused on the way the boy had held on to the fence as if his life depended on it before releasing his grip. The fence. With the symbols. “You knew about the runes.” Derek concluded unintentionally, his own voice echoing in his head when he realized what he had said in confusion and he let his eyes slither around. The yard was covered. Covered with runes. Runes meant to _protect_. And Stiles knew. Which was why he thought he had to leave that protection to get in contact with … nothing. Something?

“You knew,” he repeated again, confidently.

Stiles tore his eyes away from the sky, his hands massaging his head as he glanced up at Derek in bewilderment. “I knew what?”

“About the runes.”

“Runes?”

“For protection.”

Stiles just closed his eyes for a moment, opened them again as a sudden flicker of pain shot through his body when he tried to get back up, pushing his upper body up on his elbows and then dragging his hand over his forehead. And suddenly Derek’s nostrils were filled with the smell of purulent blood and carbon.

“What are you talking about? What runes?”

“ _The runes._ ”

“Alright, could we stop saying the words ‘runes’ just for a second here? Because I’m totally not getting you and the repetition makes my head spin.”

“Your mother. She was a druid.”

“A druid.”

“Or a witch.”

“A _witch?_ Oh my God. Have you gone mental? Hold your horses, my mother was a housewife not some wizarding, druiding woman with—” Derek just leveled him with a glare to shut him up, but Stiles had already stopped talking, his face showing a cascade of emotion from contemplation, blankness, irritation until his eyes widened in realization.

“She was a druid…” Stiles eventually repeated very slowly after a very long pause, attention fixed on the lawn. “There are things like… druids, and witches and… of course, if there are werewolves, then… there are other things. Of course. That explains…” His hand waved at everything around them and Derek nodded silently. “She wasn’t… she was…” There was a choked out laugh that suddenly turned almost hysterical and Derek wondered if the boy had finally snapped and lost it. “Oh my _God_ ,” he yelled out. “A _druid?_ A _witch_? _Really?_ ”

Something told Derek he had just broken Stiles' mind.

“What do you know?” he asked, as calmly as possible, because Laura had taught him to stay calm around drunks and madmen.

Stiles looked at him for a stunned second, before the ends of his lips twitched in grotesque amusement. “Nothing. Apparently abso _fucking_ lutely nothing. That’s just so fan _fucking_ tastic. _Fuck._ ” The last word was an empty breath, followed by a treacherous hiccup as he let his head fall back into his hands. But when Stiles removed them again he just looked angry.

Derek was lost.

The indignation, the surprise, the confusion, the anger, the hate, _everything_ was genuine, authentic. Derek’s instincts told him that. But there was no way that Stiles was as clueless as he claimed to be. The boy was completely screwing up Derek’s intuition.

“But anyway, I’m not telling you anything. No deal here,” Stiles mocked, a wicked smile now on his face. Derek reached down, his hand wrapping around the throat as he easily lifted him up, a snarl escaping him but Stiles only laughed breathlessly, the scent of tainted blood now so much closer, riling Derek up. He sniffed, trying to find the source when a foot kicked against his lower leg.

“Fuck off,” the boy wheezed, his hands strong around Derek’s wrist as he fought for leverage, for a way to relieve the pressure on his throat, while his eyes steadily answered his glare in open defiance. “Not gonna talk to you like that.”

“I want answers”, Derek growled, ignoring the struggling.

“Me, too. Looks like neither of us gets what we want, huh?” The brunette glared at him through his eyelashes. Derek didn't ease on his grip, instead tightened it for the fraction of a second, uttering a non-verbal threat, Stiles picked up on immediately. “ _Fuck you, Derek,_ It’s not like you believe me, anyway. Do you think you're the first? You think you’re the only one? I know what shit people talk about me behind my back. That I’m the local nutcase. That I have to be treated like a fucking porcelain doll. That I have to be wrapped in bubble wrap. That I'm damaged. That _my mind_ 's dysfunctional. That it’s _all_ in my head. Everything is _always_ just in my _head_ ,” he spat, blunt nails digging into Derek’s skin as he kicked him again. “And they don’t just do it _behind_ my back. They say it _to my face_. But _I’m_ not the one who stalks a teenager—”

“There was nothing there,” Derek pressed out through gritted teeth impatiently and Stiles shut his mouth with an audible click, jaw clenched as his eyes traveled over Derek’s face like he was searching for something. Derek finally put him back to his feet, hand moving from throat to collarbone, fisting into the shirt instead.

“ _Fine_ ,” Stiles snarled, waving between them. “Still no deal.”

Derek was silent for a while, almost obsessively examining the facial expressions, the wide eyes and dilated pupils from fear and pain and rush of adrenaline, movement of every tiny muscle, mouth pressed into a thin line, listening to the harsh breath, to the steady rhythmic beating of the heart, not fluttering as it usually did, one hand tugging on the hem of his shirt, the other resting on Derek’s own clenched in the shirt. And the blood. Where was the blood coming from?

“You’re wrong. You act wrong. You smell wrong.”

“ _God_ , could you stop talking about your scent fetish?” Stiles groaned. “It makes you rise like five points on your creepiness scale. And let me tell you’ve already been working hard to set a high standard.”

Derek ignored his words, taking a few steps back.

“Why should I help you,” he scrunched his nose in disgust, not adding ‘why would you help me?’. “How could you help?”

Stiles smirked. “With snarky humor and blunt and honest criticism to every stupid plan I’m sure you’re going to come up with.” Derek narrowed his eyes. “And my super awesome research skills and Google-fu,” the boy flexed his fingers in front of him, wiggling them with raised eyebrows. “Plus…” he stopped, chewing on his lips, before he let out a deep breath. “My delightful companionship for long caffeinated nights of research about supernatural crap that was never supposed to invade my life.”

“Honesty?” Derek had so suppress a humorless laugh, but the boy seemed to catch on it.

“I was always honest,” Stiles said, but his muscles were tense, his hands held up in a surrendering manner.

“So you what? Omitted?”

“Not deliberately.”

There was no lie. It made him furious. He _knew_ it wasn’t the truth. Derek would never be able to trust a word out of the boys’ mouth, would never be able to solely rely on his senses. He had always been confident, had trained hard to tell truth and lie apart. Had to after the fire. After Kate Argent lied her way into his life to destroy it.

Stiles rendered his efforts useless.

“Did you kill my sister?” He knew his voice was quiet, tinted with resigned desperation.

“Oh my _God_ , are we _still_ going on about that?” Stiles let out an exasperated sigh. “I. Did. Not. Kill. Your. Sister. Derek.”

Derek caught the whimper in his throat, because there was still no trace of a lie and he was confused, and pissed and wanted to vent his anger.

“Did you kill my uncle?”

“Tara said he’s missing.”

Derek’s nostrils flared as his lips twitched. “He’s the other one. The man that died.”

Stiles let his eyes trail over Derek’s face, before his expression slightly softened. “Would you believe me if I said no? Because you keep questioning me and you don’t believe whatever I say.”

“Because you are not lying.”

“Some people would think that’s a good thing.”

“When I _know_ you lied.”

“Dude, you’re getting all philosophical on my ass again.”

“ _Did you?_ ”

Stiles looked him up and down, his eyes lingering on his hands for a few seconds. “Sure,” he answered easily. “Because that’s what I do. I’m a sixteen year old supernatural werewolf slayer. No, hunter was the word, right? Dude, have you seen my _arms_? Haven’t we already established that you’re the first werewolf I’ve ever held a whole civilized conversation with? As far as I know anyway. How many of you are here?”

“I don’t know.”

Stiles groaned in annoyance. “Well, what _do_ you know?” he snapped, irritated. “Because it doesn’t sound like much.”

“You weren’t lying.”

“Dude, it’s called sarcasm,” Stiles sighed. “It’s not supposed to be a lie.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“For _Gods sake_.” The boy stormed his heel into the ground, before he heaved a deep sign, closing his eyes for a moment in utter concentration.

“Yes or no,” Derek insisted as a shiver ran down his spine and he looked around, surveying the area for something he might have missed. When his eyes returned to face Stiles the boy just stared at him, heart beating wildly, loudly.

“What?” The brunette asked, taking a step back, eyes darting to the door of his house and then back to Derek.

“Did you kill my uncle? Yes. Or. No.”

“What the fuck? _No_! Christ, I didn’t kill your uncle! Stop asking me stuff like that!”

Derek just growled at the truth, took a step back and then spun Stiles around, the boy yelping as he ungainly floundered forward. Derek caught him on the shoulder and could finally see what was clouding his senses. A dark stain right above the bladebone that was steadily spreading on the fabric, shirt clinging to the skin. “You’re bleeding,” he stated, his hand moving out to push the shirt down at the collar, when the boy pushed his hand off and stumbled a few feet away.

“I—what? Where?”

“Shoulder blade.”

Stiles froze for a second. “From the woods…” he started, his hand bending behind him, fingertips touching the spot before drawing back. “I thought it was healed.”

“Woods?”

“From… that day,” Stiles didn’t elaborate, but Derek knew which day he meant. Stiles had his back still to him, sign of trust or a taunt. The man didn’t know which one, could barely hold his wolf in check at the possibility that the boy was mocking him, when Stiles shifted, glancing at him out of the corner of his eyes, and then turned completely around. “I’m sorry your uncle is dead, too,” he offered quietly, catching Derek by surprise. Then he approached the back door. “I have to take care of this,” he mumbled. Derek noticed Stiles’ trembling hands, noticed his whole body shivering, his voice cracking at the last words, the desperation in the air so thick he could almost feel it.

The door flung shut with a loud bang and Derek kept on watching it, could still hear Stiles’ heartbeat behind it, his shaky breath, swallowed sobs.

Derek tuned it out.

The wound had smelled wrong, acidic and purulent and sulfurous and possessive, like a marking, like an ownership, mingled with something familiar. So _familiar_ but he couldn’t place it.

His body was filled with nervous energy, he wanted to pace up and down, wanted to howl, wanted to yell and growl at the night, wanted to crawl into Stiles’ head and pry it open, baring his memories and knowledge. Instead he hastened back to the preserve, as fast as he could to get as far away from the source of his inner turmoil. He couldn’t trust Stiles and worse, he couldn’t trust _himself_ around Stiles. The boy stripped him bare and left him with nothing.

Derek felt like he was losing his mind.

When he arrived at the border of the preserve, a few miles from the Hale Mansion, he skidded to a halt.

 _Her_ scent was all over the place, like she had stopped to touch _everything_. The trees, the bushes, the ground, her scent festering into everything around him. Like she was _marking_ her territory, taunting him, mocking him. His heart started to hammer in his chest as his breath came out in hissing growls, his stomach clenching, nostrils flaring, the familiar dull aching as his teeth started to dig into his lower lips.

The fast pounding of the blood in his veins was almost deafening to his own ears, when he let out a guttural howl and then started after her designated path. He followed it back, aware of the growing stench of smoke and for a few panicked seconds he imagined himself arriving at the house and finding it in flames again. But the house was unharmed even if her trail had led him there, and he knew that she had been in there, had touched the railing, the door, the floor boards, leaving her smell everywhere over the place, tainting the already sullied memories.

His eyes drifted to where the graves were.

Had been.

A trembling whimper escaped his throat as he almost stumbled over his own feet in his hurry to get to them, to make sure that both graves were unharmed. He passed Peter’s, partly open, reeking of decay and stopped at Laura’s.

It was empty.

He looked wildly around but he knew his path, knew where he had to go because his way was paved like concrete by her _stench_ , the sadistic amusement and sick pleasure flooding his senses, urging him on, wrapping around his brain and he knew that it could be a trap, that it was most likely a trap but he couldn’t bring himself to care as his mind was thrown overboard by the single thought of revenge and murder.

Derek’s paws hit the soft ground, whirling up dead leaves and moss and cracking small branches under his weight. He was blindly running, noticing the lines she had been going. The air started to reek of burning wood, sharp and suffocating, ashes raining down on him that made him hesitate and then stop completely.

When he looked around he saw the glimmer of orange out of the corner of his eyes, only a few miles away. He turned on his heels at an awkward angle before dashing through the lower bushes, evading trees and fallen branches until he came to an abrupt halt in front of a half burned stake.

All he could see was the wood and smoke and flames and then amidst the fire a slender hand, slowly encompassed. And the runes. Everywhere. The very same rune Stiles had drawn, this time complete, on every tree around the stake.

Derek howled.

In the distance he could hear sirens. It was too late to get her out of there, he knew, but he still hesitated for a long time, watching the hand wrapped in the flames, his nose picking up burned skin and hair and carbon and his ears listened to the crackling and cackling of lumber and fire.

It was too much.

Too close to what had happened to his family.

He bolted. There was no other word to describe it. He just ran away. Through the forest, not back to the house. Never back to the house. He was seeing red, his eyes flashing unrestrainedly, the shift beyond his control. His paws started to bleed as they trampled uncaringly on stones and sticks and glass and acorns, claws digging deep into the ground, body unyielding against trees, rocks and bushes, not caring what he hit along the way, just away. Far far away.

She was torturing him.

She was mocking him like she had a personal vendetta.

She was playing with him, telling him she knew while he knew nothing. There wasn’t anything left for him but revenge and furious anger and pain he thought he would never be able to feel again.

Let her be a hunter, let her be a witch or a druid or a darach. He would find her and kill her and he didn’t care if he started a feud or a full blown war. Didn’t care what happened to him after that.

He would find her.

He was going to find her.

No matter what.

* * *

When Derek neared the Hale Mansion he could already smell Stiles before he saw the blue Jeep parked in plain sight in front of the house. Derek didn’t know how late it was, but it was probably late afternoon, sun about to set. The fire had been put out in the early morning but there were still a few fire fighters looking after the remains, the air filled with traces of soot. He could hear their voices if he strained his ears and tried to really listen. He shut them out.

Derek was limping, from where he had tumbled down a cliff. It had been worse before, bones broken, scratches and open gashes all over his body. The healing had been slow. Because Derek had wanted it that way, letting his body put itself together until he was able to move again and then just willed it to stop.

The boy hadn’t noticed him yet, sitting cross-legged on the porch against the wall, bent over a notepad, scribbling something, probably doing homework. Derek had to snort at the thought. Then he noticed Stiles’ eyes flickering every once in a while over to the graves, worriedly chewing on his lips as if he he was asking himself what he was even doing there.

Derek followed his gaze, even though he knew what he would find there. It was probably a sheer wonder that no one had come to check on the mansion and found the open graves. And Peter’s dead body. They would have probably taken Derek in for interrogation. Again.

“I admit,” the boy suddenly spoke with a quiet voice and Derek let his eyes flicker back to him. “The day light makes this house less eerie.” One hand was blindly waving at the shell of the remains as Stiles’ eyes remained on his notepad. “Is what I would like to say. Unfortunately, that would be a lie.”

Derek snorted. He hadn’t picked up on that lie, either. He should just give up on trying to read Stiles, it was in vain anyway. “For someone,” he remarked, ignoring the sorry attempt at a joke, but Stiles didn’t look up from whatever he was doing, “who hates the preserve, you’re here quite often.”

“What can I say,” the boy drawled, “I like the company.” He finally glanced Derek’s way, and then his head immediately snapped up and his eyes widened as he let them roam over Derek’s body, taking in his condition with a frown. Derek looked down at himself. His clothes were a mess, sweaty, torn and ragged and looking like they had been drenched in blood and at one point they had, sneakers flattered where his claws had pierced through them, further cut by the strain of running and walking.

“What do you want?” he asked, unleashing his healing power again. He needed to be in better shape when facing Stiles, needed his senses together. But the brunette just eyed him warily for another couple seconds, before he picked a folder out of his backpack and threw it at Derek.

It landed a couple of inches in front of him.

Derek didn’t move to pick it up. His eyes remained on Stiles, who spat the cap of a highlighter into his hand, then capped his pen before raising his eyebrows in exasperation. “A peace offering,” he clarified, now leaning back against the exterior wall in feigned nonchalance, but Derek could feel the conflict in him, nervousness and curiosity and apprehension and alertness. “I realized we’re both stubborn and if we keep on, you know, doing this thing that’s totally not helping us, we’ll never get what either of us wants. You want to kill the one responsible for killing your sister? Not fine by me but at this point I couldn’t care less. And since both our interests happen to be the same, all the better.”

“Interests,” he replied flatly. Stiles just looked at him with an unreadable expression. “What is your ‘interest’?”

“Sorting this out, of course.”

“Why?”

Stiles leveled him with a look as if he was stupid. “Because I live here.” Derek lifted his eyebrows. “Because it’s my home. Because even if nothing is stalking me _now_ , there had been a woman trying to attack me with an axe. And I’m still pissed about that. Because your family was killed here. Because this is nothing the police can do. Not without knowing about werewolves, right? This is the right thing to do, isn’t it?”

Derek scoffed. Now he knew the boy was lying. “What do you know about the runes?”

Stiles mimicked his snort. “With you _constantly_ bugging me about the fucking symbol, I thought I’d look into it, as crazy as it may sound,” Stiles said, nodding at the folder. “The ones on my fence and house, they might mean something was what I thought, so I looked them up. They are supposed to be protection wards, like you said. ‘Nothing that wants to harm you shall ever pass’ is what one website told me,” he mocked with a disgruntled frown, then trained his eyes at the sky. “Thanks mom!” he yelled with forced cheerfulness, “That your interpretation of no harm? That dude almost gave me a concussion.” His finger pointed accusingly at Derek, before he let his head fall back again. “So anyway, I thought whatever _it-that–apparently-is-not_ is couldn’t enter. But well, seeing as you’re walking in and out and you are like totally out to hurt me I guess it’s just fantasy stuff, because it doesn’t seem to work and whatever is wrong with my head,” he pointed to his temple with a grotesque smile, twisting his finger, “could be fixed with two or three bottles of whiskey. So much for your druid-witch-theory, huh?”

Derek frowned at that, then bent down to pick the folder up. But not after sniffling for any poison or other strange things on it. There were pictures of three woman, all dressed in white and blue work coats, attached to every picture a personal data sheet plus a criminal record certificate. Some passages marked in yellow high lighter, others underlined in red. He flipped them through, realizing that the yellow markings where what they had in common while the red… he didn’t know what the red was doing. Then he stopped at a picture of something that resembled the rune Stiles had drawn for him, scribbles at the side that showed derivations of the same rune with the change of meaning. There was no rune that looked exactly as he had seen around the stake.

“Some of these things are classified.”

“Maybe.”

“Where did you get them?”

“While you have been frolicking in the woods,” the boy said and Derek returned his attention back to him, “I’ve done some research. That,” Stiles said, pointing with his pen at Derek, “Is part of what I have found out. Emphasis on the word _part_.”

“The rest?”

Stiles closed his notepad, stood up and brushed the dust from his jeans. “Life insurance,” he answered. “And, you know, how the saying goes? There are two rules to success. One—”

“Never reveal everything you know.”

“Righto,” Stiles said, walking up to him, scrutinizing Derek’s foot where bones were working to realign into the right angle, a gash at the side where his tendons had been sown from the outside, still open and bloody. Stiles disregarded it with cold efficiency.

“These are all nurses that at one point in time took care of your uncle. In over six years there were four nurses primarily devoted to Peter Hale with on-call duty if ever something out of the ordinary happened. Another ten had been randomly assigned when the main nurses were sick or pregnant or just on vacation. So we have a total of fourteen nurses that had at one point in time contact with your uncle. Therefore are most likely able to get him out of the hospital. You following me here?”

Derek nodded.

“Good.”

Derek had expected the boy to finish his explanation but instead he just glowered at him, whipping forward and backward on his feet. “There are two phone numbers in there,” he said, changing the subject and taking the folder out of Derek’s hand, pointing at notes on the front cover. “The first one is for questions or whatever. I’ll usually answer in a day or so. If I don’t, don’t check on me. I’m probably fine. The second now, that’s the important one. It’s for emergencies. And I mean life-threatening horribly almost dead _emergencies_ and there are _rules_ you’ll have to follow if you ever use that number for whatever reason.”

Derek scrunched his nose. “My number?”

“I’ll have it as soon as you call me.”

“If.”

“Stop playing hard to get, it’s irritating,” the boy brushed him off. For all his faked composure Derek could still feel anxiety at being close to him, to a werewolf. He noticed Stiles’ hesitance in his movements when he had been playing with the pen, the tremble in his voice. Derek had to give him credits for even walking up to the house, though, acting like he was all in control when they both knew he was as lost in this as Derek was.

“We need a code word.”

“Code word?”

“Yes,” Stiles said, tapping his feet. “You’ll have to use it or I’ll hang up.”

Derek rolled his eyes, but the boy was serious. He had probably seen too many bad detective movies.

“Isegrim.”

Derek raised his eyebrow. “Isegrim,” he repeated. “Does that make you Reynard?”

Stiles eyes widened in honest surprise, his mouth slightly open before he huffed out a laugh. “Dude, first of all, I totally didn’t expect you to get that drift.” He said. “What are you? A secret folklore nerd? Betcha read the Grimm's Fairy Tales before going to bed at night. The original gruesome ones, not the child-version. If you even sleep at night that is. Do werewolves sleep at night? Or at day? And sure, you can call me that. Though I think you’re giving me too much credit. But well, I’ll try not to put my name to shame.”

Derek mentally disagreed.

Reynard was probably spot on.

And that meant Derek had to be very careful.

“But, no, I’m serious. Isegrim has to be your first word before you say _anything_ else.” There was a smirk on the boys’ lips when he closed the folder. “You better not forget it or your ass will be on the line. Most likely literally. Now, I don’t recognize any of the women, but you have this super awesome smell thing going on so you could, I don’t know, sniff their houses out for something that reminds you. Or the hospital. They’ve all been working at the Beacons Crossing Home at one point in the past years.”

“Too many smells,” Derek said.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t already tried that.

“You’ll figure something out.” Stiles only waved his hand in disinterest, instead nodded in the direction of the smoke. “Fire? Burning evidence?”

He honestly wasn’t sure if Stiles was trying to imply that _Derek_ was the one who had done it.

“Who was it?” The boy asked.

“Your nurse,” Derek replied.

Stiles rolled his eyes at him. “No. Which one?” he asked, yanking his thumb in the direction of the graves. “Laura or Peter?”

Derek growled at the lax use of their names. “Laura.”

“Seriously?” Stiles asked, digging blunt fingernails into his arm. “Any idea why?”

“No.”

“I know it’s stating the obvious, man, but that woman is _sick_.” He continued to whip on his heels for a few seconds before he planted them down firmly a moment later. “Well then,” the boy said, passing him and climbing back into his Jeep. “Don’t call me. Ever. Unless necessary. If you want something, you know where to find me.”

“I haven’t agreed.”

Stiles just smirked. “You will,” he stated confidently, “we both know you will,” he added, then closed the door and started the engine, driving of without looking back even once.

Derek growled and then threw the folder on the ground, turning around to march into the house before he stopped again, taking a deep breath. He turned on his heels, picked the folder and the loose sheets of paper up and sat down on the stairs, studying what the boy had found out in such a short time and trying not to admire his research abilities.

That boy was, after all, still, above all, barking mad.

And Derek wasn’t stupid.

He knew that what Stiles had given him was bait. Information worth enough to look into but minor in comparison to what else he had gathered. He knew it when he saw that the resumes of the nurses Stiles had given him were solely ones that weren’t working in the long term facility anymore, had either changed jobs, interned in the hospital, or changed hospitals altogether. Stiles was smart, probably withholding the most critical part in figuring this out until Derek cracked and let him know he was going to agree.

And they both knew he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've done it! Figured the whole plot out. Yes! Looks like there will be four arcs althogether and this one will end with chapter ten (I think, maybe eleven if I decide to split the next one which is kind of long).
> 
> Little note on Eric: In my head Derek's older brother (and yes, he HAS an older brother) will always be Philip, thanks to Play it Again for that. However, as I made a mental name check - and we all know how creative the Hale's are with naming - I thought Eric fitted well down the line of Frederick and Derek. So there you have it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just start up by saying how much I _hate this chapter?_ Because I hate it with a passion. I was about to skip it and jump right to chapter seven. I hated it two months ago and I still do. I'll be busy the next couple days (weeks) and wanted to leave this here for you to hate as much as I do so everybody will know this story is still alive and well. Currently working on the last chapter of this arc so, yay.
> 
> Still open for any form of criticism, theories and whatever else you might like me to know or point out or, you know, do.

Stiles was bull-shitting his way through this whole thing.

He had no idea what was going on. None at all. And it made him… antsy. To sum it up in one phrase: his whole comfort zone was shaken. Beyond repair.

When he woke up in the early mornings after the Let’s-get-Derek-Hale-arrested debacle, the blurry figure of his dad stood in the doorway trying to talk to him in slurs through his sleep-clouded daze. He must have drifted back to sleep right after realizing who was trying to scold him, because when he eventually startled awake from his dream about a wolf chasing him through the woods sometime later his father was gone. Instead he found several missed calls in minute-intervals on his phone and quite a few messages his dad probably had sent while he had still been at work. The last one a warning of what would happen to Stiles as soon as his father woke up.

**We are going to talk about this.**

Simple words. Simple and scary. There was a period at the end, okay?

When Stiles went down to the kitchen there were leftovers from a very, very unhealthy early morning anger-revenge breakfast. He mentally counted the calories to figure out how angry his dad was, before he padded to his father’s bedroom door and knocked. To his relief there was no answer so he got prepared for school and left the house in a flurry before his dad could catch him.

Meanwhile in school Scott almost drove him crazy, sneaking completely _not_ inconspicuous glances at him until Stiles finally lost it and told him to cut it out. Scott had just stared at him for a few seconds, before he promptly launched into an astonishingly elaborate argumentation about why it was better for Stiles to sleep over at Scott’s house for a couple of days.

Stiles was reluctant to stay with the McCall’s, lest he made them a target for whatever was hunting Derek. And therefore him as well. As if it was _his_ fault the man had dragged him into the woods on false charges. Not to mention the ubiquitous presence of that evil axe bitch in the back of his mind. He was still internally counting all the reasons why it was a very bad idea to live with his second family when Melissa called, growling at him that she had gotten a call from Helena Cartridge, occupational stern, emotionally deadened, partly evil but mostly well-meaning psychiatrist. Before she could even continue he let out a silent ‘ohoh’. He had missed the last two appointments. Honestly, though, in his defense, they had _completely_ slipped his mind. Melissa continued to berate him, until she finally jumped to the gist of the matter, which was: Stiles was going to live with them again. Melissa used a voice that didn’t allow objections.

Stiles objected anyway. And hastily hang up.

Which triggered an onslaught of visits from neighbors, checking up on him, asking if he was alright, trying to sneak some glances past him like they expected a hidden fugitive in his living room. Stiles wasn’t even surprised when Miss Avery, a tiny old woman with gray-white locks and a hearing aid that failed her more often than not suddenly stood in front of his door, her chihuahua Bob tucked into a bag to her side, yapping at him in indignation. Or maybe he was yapping at that spinach lasagna. Hard to tell, it being the most horrendous thing he had ever seen.

First step of action after Miss Avery left was to put the lasagna into little Tupperware boxes and stack them in the freezer for his dad. In retrospect, he should have known the night would go downhill from there. What with him fainting and Derek prowling around in his garden and that fucking injury opening _again_.

There really wasn’t much he could remember from that night. Just that he got up to get a glass of water and take a leak and upon return it just stood there, unwavering as ever, at the same spot it had always been, watching him with black nothing. He panicked, tried to hide, to get away, to do _something_ and then just stumbled over his own feet and out he was. What followed was blinding pain, like his whole brain was being scorched or, really, he had no idea. There had been flickering images of fire, burning curtains, tiny thin arms reaching out for help, a man barely in his twenties cradling a crying girl to his chest, smiling fondly at her while flames circled them just before his face broke in pain.

He could remember a shape, vaguely familiar when it came into blurry focus. He was approaching it, but he wasn’t the one navigating his own body, like it was controlled by someone—something else. He knew his mind talked, did something but the shape just smiled, flames ripping at his clothes, heavy smoke filling his lungs. And the next thing he recalled was that he woke up in Derek’s arms, lifting him like he was some _fucking princess._ Which he decisively was not. So he rammed his elbow into the man’s freakishly rock-hard jaw. He tried not to wince the second it hit and it felt like his bones were about to break. And _then_ Derek started with that whole interrogation stuff again which just blew his mind.

He was so fucking done with everything.

He might have had a nervous breakdown after he slammed the door behind him and left Derek standing in his yard. Maybe there was some manly crying involved, he wasn’t so sure anymore. His mind was good at repressing uncomfortable memories.

Like _really good._

The next day Melissa called again. She told him she had spoken to his dad who had wholeheartedly agreed with her idea of Stiles living with the McCall’s until the strange cases were solved and he had time to return home for more than just sleep and food. Stiles suspected foul play. It was probably his father’s way of punishing him but at that point he stopped caring. With what had happened the night before he was all too willing to get away from the house for a couple of days.

What followed were awkward talks over dinner about how people – no one specific – usually feel better when they talked about their problems with friends or family. Stiles thought that those totally imaginary and absolutely not related people didn’t have the same problems he had. Because they weren’t Stiles Stilinski and therefore a whole lot bigger on the overrated self-preservation instinct. Stiles was pretty sure that Scott wasn’t the only one who wanted to go and die under the table because those had been the most awkward dinners in history of dinners ever and he was blasphemously including the Last Supper in this statement.

When Stiles pointedly ignored all hints in his direction for two days straight the discussion shifted to Derek Hale, which was an even bigger _nope_. He successfully dodged the interrogation by claiming his father coming back home early and he wanted to prepare some low-carb food and he would be back before eleven, no, of course he meant ten – because, yes, of course he had not forgotten he was supposed to stay with them but that didn’t mean he had to spent _every hour_ of the day there, right? - and was out the door before Melissa could even finish the surname ‘Hale’. Stiles was sure Melissa knew he had been lying if her narrowed eyes were any indication but he ignored it in favor of getting the hell out of there. Stiles was positively convinced she knew his father’s schedule better than anyone else and with what was going on – fire in the preserve with human bones, yikes – he was probably busier than ever.

Good thing was that ever since he started spending the night’s at the McCall’s he hadn’t met the shadow anymore. So whatever Derek had done that day – and seriously, what _had_ he been doing there _at all_? – must have upset whoever… whatever? and drove him—her—it? away. Or maybe _that_ just hadn’t found him yet at his second home? There were far too many variables in this equation than he’d personally liked to ever find in a test paper. He would totally fail that shit.

Anyway, now that he was blissfully – temporarily, no illusion there – stalker-free Stiles decided he was going to enjoy it. Just that he wouldn’t calm _down_.

And that whole nothing happening thing?

Totally just the calm before the storm.

Stiles was 99.9% sure.

Though he was somehow still clinging to that tiny flicker of hope that everything was over, Derek Hale would leave the town and never return and people were not out to get him with arrows through his trachea or axes waiting to split his head open or – if he was right and the fire was indeed linked to everything else that had happened – burn him on a stake. That would be favorable, fabulous, amazing—and totally not Stiles’ life.

Not at all.

He still tried to relax though, adamant to return to his old boring slightly mischievous life. First step was an extracurricular session with Mrs. Cartridge in her pure white bureau, inquiring why he had felt the need to skip his appointments. Next step was going back to bench warming during Lacrosse practice or games, chatting with Scott, and if he was in a good mood, even with Greenberg. Step three was completely ignoring the man that sometimes appeared in the locker room but no one ever acknowledged.

Neither him nor Scott were picked for the mock game but Stiles couldn’t care less. Scott had been whining the whole time, until Stiles pointed out that at least this way, Allison wouldn’t see him fail and just mentioning her name lightened him up.

Scott was so blissfully simple.

Stiles wished his life was as simple.

But life wasn’t simple.

Never.

Not if you were Stiles Stilinski.

And had a somewhat showdown with a person called Derek Hale waiting to happen. He hadn’t seen the man for days – four to be precise – while Derek had been doing whatever he was doing when he wasn’t not-actually-stalking Stiles. Probably kicking little puppies or something equally awful. Stiles wasn’t even sure what to expect of their next meeting. The whole arrest-fiasco still hanging over him like a cloud of shame. But he sure as hell didn’t expect him to just haul him into his car without any explanation.

_From the freaking school parking lot._

Which yeah, Derek probably did because he couldn’t break into Stiles’ room anymore. Or well, he _could_ , just that he wasn’t there anymore. Much. Still sometimes. Okay, more often than he should, but hey, at least he spent the nights at the McCall’s, okay? He had a curfew and he bid to it. Stiles was almost following the rules here and that could be considered as one of the seven wonders, really.

Actually, some part of him was a tiny eenie-weenie bit relieved being with Derek – the part that wasn’t screaming bloody murder. But that fraction only piped up after a few minutes had gone by and Stiles realized they weren’t bound to go to the preserve where the man could bury his dead body without anyone noticing but instead heading right along—the Red Hill Road?

What?

Stiles squinted at the road signs, then at the dark-haired man but Derek didn’t look angry or murderous. Not more than usual at least. So maybe that was a good sign. Which was why he tried to relax. A little. Because, well, Derek _had_ rescued him at least twice – and probably threatened him equally as often which kinda made them even. So Stiles tried to act like it was their first meeting. He was generous that way. What with waiting before pegging Derek as the obvious serial-killer that he was. Or was going to be. Or whatever.

Anyway, Derek knew about what was going on – well as much as Stiles did, at least - he probably wasn’t much wiser, and, yeah, Derek was in this mess with him and he seemed completely capable of protecting Stiles’ poor breakable body and maybe himself at the same time. He had done a good job before, seeing as Stiles wasn’t missing any important body parts and limbs and all that and yeah, he had been a real jackass about it afterwards, but _dead family_. Stiles was at least _willing_ to make an effort, seeing as they needed each other probably as much as they wanted to never meet again.

Another part of him was screaming in his head about how ridiculous everything had become and that _Derek_ was still fucking vile and vicious and violent and twenty thousand other negative words starting with ‘v’. He had to narrow it down to one letter, because if he could use any other letter of the alphabet he would probably be busy listing adjectives into next year.

“Is there anything we have to talk about?” he eventually asked with an exhausted sigh, squirming in the seat, letting his hands involuntary wander over the leather and trying not to appreciate the feeling, because maybe his Jeep would notice his cheating ways and never start the engine for him again. Stiles was a cheater. He wasn’t proud of it.

Derek just glanced at him, then pulled over to the shoulder, went down a sandy road to what looked like a very good place for a couple to make out or just, you know, _kill someone without anyone noticing_. Derek stopped the car, silencing the engine, his fingers drumming to a silent melody until he eventually noticed and instead gripped the steering wheel. Tight. There were white knuckles. So really tight.

Stiles didn’t even think about panicking. It was bad for his heart.

Derek did nothing.

Stiles watched him doing nothing.

“Is this about my stalker?”

Derek heaved a very, very exhausted sigh. “There’s no-one stalking you,” he said, enunciating every syllable like they had the conversation for the millionth time.

“Maybe not now, but there _was_. And I’m pretty sure it was the nurse, okay?”

“It wasn’t.”

“How would _you_ know?” Stiles asked sharply.

The man just ignored his question.

Derek thought he was bonkers. So did half the town. Stiles could tell from the way the man avoided eye contact, how his jaw was clenched like he was holding back what he was thinking and, yeah, maybe it _really_ was all in his head. It wouldn’t be the first time something like that happened to him and after the many sleepless nights it wasn’t unusual to eventually just flip.

“Okay,” he said slowly, “it’s all in my head. You’re right. I’m a fucking screwed up nutjob. Nothing my therapist can’t fix I’m sure. Maybe it’s just the Adderall.”

Because he had read that too much Adderall could make people delusional or hallucinate. He knew about the restlessness and the tics, like twitching eyes or limps, having overdosed more than once, so yeah, why not. It could be the Adderall.

Right, maybe he was just seeing things.

Which was why he didn’t see them at the McCall’s. Because he was more relaxed knowing Scott was there, just one room over. Knowing Melissa had a bat and knew how to handle it. Maybe he understood all that on a subliminal level.

That, wow, just sounded like the sanest thing ever in his life.

“Jesus, it’s the Adderall, why didn’t I realize?” He let out a throaty laugh, slapping his palm against his forehead as he leaned back in the seat. Though he didn’t feel like laughing at all. Or like practically barring his fucking soul out to the man that a couple of days prior threatened to _kill him_. And then saved him. Stiles liked to keep track of the saving thing, because it made breathing easier in Derek’s presence. Made him believe for a while that the man wasn’t all that dangerous or scary.

It felt like Derek was about to say something, but when Stiles turned his attention back to the dark-haired man he just watched him with an unreadable expression. Still no words.

“Not a big talker, are you?” he eventually asked. Not that he didn’t know. That guy had barely spoken when they had walked through the woods.

Wonder, oh, wonder, Derek remained silent.

Stiles huffed. “So? What do you want then?” he eventually asked. “And not that I don’t appreciate you kidnapping me from the school but I really hope you bring me back because, fuck, that’d be one hell of a walk back.”

Derek hesitated, before he leaned over Stiles’ lap to the glove box. Stiles was proud he didn’t let out a squeal. It would have been a manly squeal of course, but still. An innocent movement like that shouldn’t look angry and threatening but it did and Stiles pushed his whole body against the door to get as far away from the man as possible. Derek either ignored it or didn’t care. Most likely the latter. When he leaned back, he pushed a folder against Stiles’ chest with a force that left his lungs breathless for a moment.

“What?” Stiles asked, looking at the pictures of women, all clad in nurse outfits, skimming the different faces, taking in everything and stopping at a woman with a very deep frown, short brown hair and a sinister aura that was practically appearing in dark circles around her body. Or maybe he was just prejudiced. Axe, man. A freaking _axe_.

Derek scowled at him.

_Default expression._

Oh, he was getting good at that. He mentally clapped his shoulder. Then he frowned. He shouldn’t be proud about that. “So?” Stiles waved the pictures at the man as he sat down back in the middle of the seat. “I recognize none of them.”

“I know,” Derek said, frowning at him. “And it’s none of them either.”

There was a hidden message in those words that Stiles couldn’t decipher. Not that he actually tried awfully hard. He had gathered from the few sparsely put painful encounters that Derek wasn’t willingly sharing information or admitting stuff. Instead he went with subtle but Stiles couldn’t be bothered to make an effort to understand the other man without words.

“I need the rest.”

“Okay,” Stiles said slowly, questioningly and Derek turned to him in annoyance. And great. Now it was all Stiles’ fault that the man was speaking in riddles? “What rest?” he asked in exasperation, throwing his hands in the air.

“Whatever you’ve got.”

“I don’t have—”

“That deal…” he stopped, his face scrunched up in disgust, “it’s on.”

“Deal? What deal? I haven’t sold my soul to you when I wasn’t looking, have I?”

“No,” Derek snapped and Stiles jumped in his seat. “About us working together!”

“Fuck, okay, yes! Let’s work together! Totally! Because I’m the best working partner. You’ll be amazed at how good of a partner I am… will be… going to be. Like with Google and stuff and—right, shutting up now.”

Derek just watched him with a mixture of complete confusion and really aggressive aggravation. Like _aggressively_ aggressive aggravation.

“Terms.”

Stiles put the hands he had been holding up in a gesture of surrender down – he hadn’t even realized he had done that but, well _instincts_. They were real. “Okay, hit them,” he muttered.

“I meant yours.” Derek looked at him like he was stupid. Seriously, was this going to become a thing between them until this was all resolved?

“Oh, _mine_. Okay, let me think.” Derek kept quiet beside him and Stiles looked out the window. There were about a hundred questions racing through his brain, like were they really going to work together in this? Was Derek, like becoming the closest thing to an ally Stiles would ever have in this grand scheme of the cosmos fucking him up? Because apparently Derek had been fucked by the universe countless times. Hard. Worse than Stiles actually and now they were really in this together? Like really, _really?_ Without involving the police – which, hey, maybe they should? He should propose that at some point.

“Today,” Derek finally snapped impatiently, taking a deep breath, hands steeled on his wheel.

Exaggerating, much?

“Rule number one,” Stiles said, “stop treating me like some annoying insect okay? If we’re going to work together we’ll be _civil_ around each other. Is that something you’re capable of?”

Derek snorted in contempt.

“Rule number two, use your _goddamned words_. I’m not a fucking _psychic_. And I will not hold conversations with your _eyebrows!_ ”

“What else?”

“Stay away from my home. I don’t want my father seeing you. You only get _one_ free pass and that’s for when you’re bleeding to death of a fatal wound or something like that. So you better use it wisely.”

Derek kept watching inquisitively, prompting him to continue.

“It would be nice to stay alive, so if you could promise to, I don’t know, protect me? That would be totally awesome.”

“Keeping you alive.”

“No, no, no, dude. Not just _alive_. Fucking safe, man. I don’t want to be crippled or mutilated or whatever and keep on living with half a face or horrible stuff like that.”

“Okay.”

“And information. Like everything _you_ know. No holding back! Don’t think I didn’t notice that you had been lying to me about the rune, okay?”

“So have you,” Derek snarled back.

And yeah, okay. “Point taken.” Stiles rolled his eyes before he stopped. “Hey! You lied to me _first_ ,” he remembered. “I lied because you lied, okay? That’s like, action-reaction!”

Derek opened his mouth. Stiles glared at him. He hoped it was an I-dare-you-to-claim-otherwise glare. Derek heaved a very, very deep sigh as if he wanted him to know how much effort acknowledging Stiles being right was and then silently nodded. Now, Stiles wasn’t an expert on Derek Hale behavior but he seemed rather… compliant. And that kind of scared him. Maybe the guy had a good day?

“What are…” he cleared his throat, “ _your_ terms?” Stiles asked, narrowing his eyes at the man suspiciously, because if he accepted everything Stiles was throwing at him he really didn’t know what to expect from him. His pinky as a sign of loyalty? God, he really hoped it wasn’t something like that.

“You tell me the truth,” Derek simply replied with a nonchalant shrug.

Stiles nodded at that. “That I can do.”

“I doubt that.” There was no bitterness in his voice. Or any snark really. Just a simple fact and Stiles briefly considered a reply, but then left it uncommented as he just crossed his arms in front of his chest.

Really, he had only been lying to Derek once, so what the hell was he implying here? Alright, maybe more than once. A couple of times. Never when it was obviously really important, okay?

“Tell me what you need,” he finally offered, after dragging a deep breath in.

Derek looked at him again.

“First—”

“There are, like, _more than one?_ ”

There was a growl. It wasn’t his stomach.

“Oh God, _go on_. I was just teasing.”

“I want you to find out which Hospital—”

Stiles held his hand up, stopping whatever Derek was saying and opened his Note App. He had a feeling this could be important and Stiles really had a knack for forgetting things. It had become a compulsion to write everything down. Actually, it originated from a time when Stiles kept having time lapses. There was always the nagging feeling in the back of his head that he might forget something. He actually started to write all over his body like the guy from Memento, every detail that could be somehow important. Later he took note pads and pens with him where ever he went. Now he had his app. It was a good app.

“Okay, shoot,” Stiles eventually said.

“I want you to find out about Hospital stuff members on vacation. Or on sick leave. Or who have been absent from the hospital ever since,” he didn’t finish but Stiles nodded his head in understanding. That was a timeframe of almost two weeks.

“I’ll talk with Melissa, she probably knows about that. She’s a nurse and works at the hospital,” Stiles added, when he noticed the subtle confusion. “Should have asked her before, but well, it’s not easy to phrase stuff like, ‘hey, do you have a friend at work who likes to fondle axes?’ Yeah, can see that going down well.”

“The police,” Derek stopped and Stiles’ head snapped up at his hesitation.

Oh God, he wasn’t going to off them for asking too many questions, was he?

“What about them?”

“They are… a problem,” the man offered slowly. “They keep pulling me over.”

“Why would they—oh! _Oh!_ Oh right! That, yeah, would be probably my fault. Uh, sorry about … that. I guess. But hey, you got out just fine, right?”

“Three times yesterday. Because of a broken tail light.”

“Word of advice: fix it.”

“It’s not broken.”

“ _Ohh._ ”

“They checked, very thoroughly, for any parking or traffic violations, too.”

Stiles couldn’t hide the grin on his lips anymore, appreciating the protectiveness of his father’s colleagues. He would have to ask his father if he knew. Hell, for all he knew his dad had been the one pulling Derek over.

“Dude, you have traffic violations on your ass?”

“No,” Derek growled and Stiles stifled a laugh. Okay, this shouldn’t be funny but between the angry crease in Derek’s eyebrows there was something like honest worry. No wonder Derek had been very accurately keeping the speed limit. Even Stiles wasn’t as paranoid and his father was a deputy. “Not yet,” the man added wryly and Stiles nodded in understanding.

“So, what do you want me to do?”

“Do _something_ ,” Derek hissed.

“What, by the way, makes you actually believe that I can do all that you ask? So I get that I’m the brain, because let’s face it, I’m super smart and you’re the muscle, because you are super ripped and,” he waved the hand with the smart phone and his notes, “I’m flattered, but what if I can’t pull this all off?”

“You said you could,” Derek replied accusingly and his jaw clenched. Audibly.

Aww, man. Why was he always putting his foot in his mouth? Why was he always talking before thinking? That was really going against the smart thesis.

“I said _what if_.”

“Then we have to deal somehow,” Derek replied sternly.

Stiles deflated in his seat. He had been expecting an answer like ‘Then I’ll kill you’ or ‘Then I’ll _make_ you do it one way or another’. Instead Derek had said _we have to deal_. Like in _them_. Like in _together_. Not Derek. Not Derek _alone_. Not Derek _dealing_ _with_ Stiles. That was kind of… wow.

“Okay,” Stiles replied quietly, but Derek heard him anyway.

“I’m—” Derek didn’t finish when his whole body suddenly stiffened and he looked in the rearview mirror. Stiles turned around with his whole body to see what Derek had noticed.

There was a police car. Appearing behind the bushes. How the fuck did they even find them here? Did they like have a permanent tracker on Derek’s car? Was that even _legal?_ Stiles would have to check that.

“Get out.”

“What?”

“Get. Out.”

“Hell, no. That would be even worse! ‘Ops, officer, what a surprise. I was just about to leave the car in this deserted place the second you decided to corner us. _Total coincidence_.’ Suck it up, we’ll get through this. Or wait. Is there like a rule you can’t be seen with the guy you got arrested for stalking?”

_“Stiles.”_

“What?”

“Hide the—”

“Oh right,” Stiles jerked in his seat, frantically pushing the folder and pictures back into the compartment box, trying to close it but the folder was kind of stuck in the closure and it sprang open again.

Derek took an annoyed breath in, but the compartment was still unwilling to succumb to his wishes when the cruiser stopped right next to them. Stiles pushed his knee against it to keep it closed and then threw the deputy he realized was McKenzie a dazzling smile.

Deputy Conrad McKenzie was one of the newest additions to the Sheriff’s department and someone Stiles had met more than once when he came to visit his dad. He would sit down and talk to him for half an hour, making jokes and buying him coffee Stiles probably shouldn’t drink, because caffeine? Not good for him.

So, this should be easy-peasy.

The blond deputy wound the window down and then pointedly looked at them when Derek wasn’t moving to follow the silent request. “Don’t be a baby,” Stiles mumbled, rolled his eyes and pushed the button on the control between them.

In the meantime, Derek tried to hide behind his hand, making himself as small as possible which was… yeah, involuntarily hilarious and adorable at the same time. “Hello there, McKenzie,” Stiles drawled as he leaned out of the car. “What are you doing here in, huh? This totally inconspicuous abandoned viewing spot somewhere along the road to nowhere?”

“Stiles,” the man said, trying to peek behind him, but the boy was slightly shifting in his position to block the view behind him. McKenzie rolled his eyes in reply. “I know it’s Derek Hale with you.”

“Do you, now?”

Derek groaned.

The man stared at the car, then at Stiles and the boy just rolled his eyes and flopped back against the seat, forgetting the glove compartment and yanking forward to close it when it was about to spring open again. “So, then, fancy meeting you,” Stiles mumbled with a nervous chuckle.

“Derek Hale,” McKenzie greeted and there was a razor sharp edge to the name. “May I inquire what you two are doing here?”

Stiles was maybe panicking, because his first instinctive answer had almost been ‘making out’ which wasn’t just a complete and shameless lie but probably even a felony considering Derek’s age—whatever it was. Dude looked like thirty or something so what would he know anyway? Instead of answering he elbowed Derek. Because Derek was the one who had brought them to this spot in the first place. He really should be the one to get a grip on his vocal cords and lie their way through this situation.

“You are not engaging in anything… forbidden?”

Being followed by people who hunted Derek? Being stalked by apparently nothing that he was still kind of convinced was totally stalking him? Trying to find out who killed Derek’s sister and uncle and hiding the fact he had found the upper part of her body? Stalking a nurse that may or may not be involved with any of this shit? Why was there so much stalking going on anyway?

“I’m not engaging in anything forbidden,” Stiles said hastily. “Do you engage in anything forbidden, Derek? I don’t think here is any engaging going on. At all. Least of all the prohibited kind. Or the illicit.”

Derek pinched him in the side. Hard. Stiles jumped in his seat, yelped and then glared at him, rubbing the sting away before he turned back to the deputy who watched them like a hawk.

Well, it wasn’t like Derek tried to help out here, okay?

“Are you held here against your will?”

Stiles groaned in annoyance. “Oh my God. Come on! Do you really think I’m capable of keeping anyone against their will? Have you met me? Have you _seen_ me? Like I could kidnap Derek and keep him anywhere. Jesus. I’m not that far gone, okay?”

McKenzie blinked at him, then at Derek and Stiles noticed that Derek had an equally confused expression on his face.

What?

“No,” McKenzie finally said, coughing, “I meant you, Stiles. Are _you_ here against _your_ will?”

“Oh! _Oh!_ ”Stiles left an intentional pause, long enough to make Derek growl and McKenzie frown, before he huffed out a laugh. “No, no. Everything’s fine. He’s been out of town for a while. Just reintroducing him is all. Because, you know, we go way back.” About two weeks way back but hey, who was counting? He was sure he had met Derek Hale somewhere when he was a teenager and Stiles an even weirder kid. Maybe at the pool or something. Who knew. Beacon Hills, small town, all possibilities open.

“That so?” McKenzie frowned. “Well it has indeed been awhile, right Derek? You still playing baseball?”

Stiles looked at the blond man, then turned to throw a quizzical look at Derek, who eventually stopped his unsuccessful attempt to vanish from the leather seat and instead leaned a bit forward, arms crossed on the steering wheel.

“No,” he answered, awkwardly.

Stiles really shouldn’t feel that spark of glee at seeing Derek uncomfortable and almost squirming under the stare.

“That’s a shame. You know,” McKenzie said, now looking back to Stiles. “I can still remember, back in High School they all wanted him to play basketball, but he was more a baseball fan. Really good at it, too.”

“Oh,” Stiles said, blinking. Because really, what else was he supposed to say? Oh wait, hey! Maybe he _did_ know Derek from baseball training back then! He had been playing until he was nine and maybe Derek was one of the older kids. If he had been such a baseball geek he had probably ever since well, whatever. So they might have known each other. Back in baseball club or something.

“Stiles, you are in your sophomore year now, if I’m not mistaken?”

“…Yeah…?” Okay, this was kind of a strange change of topic.

“Derek here, he was a sophomore when I was a senior, right, Derek?”

Derek nodded sharply.

“How many years has that been? It’s such a long time, I can hardly remember.”

“Six,” Derek answered through gritted teeth and wow, that made Derek much, much younger than Stiles had assumed. Like what? Twenty-one? Must have been the stubble and all. Made him look like a caveman in combination with his hunched back and broody face and evil glare and all that.

And _ohholymotherjesusfuckinggod_ Stiles was so _stupid_! Because all _he_ had been thinking about was how to hide the pictures and the fact that there was a crazy bitch killing people and McKenzie thought there was some kind of, what was the word, _statutory rape_ thing going on? Oh come on. That so wasn’t funny _at all_.

“Did you know I used to play baseball, too?” Stiles chipped in. “That’s how we know each other, actually. Played for a while. Was pretty good at it, too. You can ask my—”

“He got trophies,” Derek interrupted in confirmation and that was—how the effing _fuck_ did he even know that? Oh. Right. Broke into his room that creeper. Holy shit. How long had he been in there to notice _that_?

“Yeah, because I had help,” Stiles drawled, nudging Derek with his elbows as if they were sharing an inside joke.

“Is that so?”

Stiles nodded enthusiastically.

“So now, you know, we are getting Derek back in touch with the Beacon Hills ambiance. Because as I told you, we go way, way back in a totally platonic kind of way way back. Baseball playing times way back, no inappropriate touching way back,” he nodded to himself in agreement and Derek looked less like he wanted to jump out of the car and bolt and more like he wanted to strangle Stiles.

Hey, he was trying to help here, okay?

Wasn’t it already bad enough that he was going to burn in hell for all his lying?

“Right,” McKenzie said, unimpressed.

“And I know it’s my fault with that… uh, prank. Which it was. Totally. I guess I should have let you know, or something, but—”

 _“Stiles,”_ Derek interrupted him annoyed.

“Yeah, right, anyway, would you kindly leave Derek alone now? Everything’s totally fine. Between us. Nonsexual. And I don’t mean to imply someone here is asexual. Because I wouldn’t know. About Derek’s sexuality. I mean I would. As his friend. But not in the personal—”

“Oh God,” Derek groaned like he was in _pain._

“I meant the non-touching kind of fine. Of course. No touching. Whatsoever. Only in a totally platonic friendly manner. With hugs. And slapping the shoulder. Right. And nothing was Derek’s fault. It was all me. I’m going to tell my dad, too. Because you’re all acting stupid.” Derek winced and Stiles frowned but McKenzie leaned back, eyes wide for a moment, drifting between both. “Which is my fault. And I get that, so if you need me—”

“You know?” McKenzie suddenly asked over Stiles’ head and monologue, eyes fixed on Derek.

“Yeah,” Derek simply replied and Stiles frowned because he really didn’t know what was going on, _now_.

“You better know what you’re doing.” McKenzie let out another sigh, then started to wind the window up again. “Now stay safe you two. Take care of Stiles. Use protection and all that grown up—” His words got lost as the window closed and he started the engine and navigated backwards out of the cliff.

Stiles turned to look at Derek.

“What... was that about?”

“That I know about your father,” Derek answered.

“Being a deputy?”

“Yeah…”

Stiles squinted his eyes at him, but Derek just started the engine with a shrug.

“He probably thought we are dating or something, you know?” Stiles said, waving his hand at him. Derek just rolled his eyes, pulling out of the hidden viewer spot himself. Yep, Stiles was pretty sure he had known from the very beginning and apparently didn’t feel the need to clue Stiles in on that which was just mean. But then his eyes widened in realization.

“Oh my God, do you know what that means?” Derek just raised an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation as he sped the car up after they left the bushes behind and he changed from the shoulder to the lane. “It means that I’m not completely hopeless!” Stiles puffed his chest, and he turned to look at Derek. “He thought I could get someone like _you_ to date _me_ ,” Stiles repeated slowly, then a wide grin spread over his lips. “Man. I _am_ awesome.”

Derek just arched an eyebrow in response, eyes fixed on the road. “Right,” was all he replied dryly.

Stiles just shrugged at the insusceptible behavior and kept his ego-boosting thoughts mostly to himself, every now and again chuckling at the revelation of him having an older objectively hot boyfriend while said completely misunderstood boyfriend in question wisely ignored him. Well mostly. But for that one time when he threatened Stiles with bodily harm if he didn’t shut up. Which was kind of getting old but not any less dismaying.

Stiles knew he should be hypothetically pissed at the suggestion he needed people meddling in his non-existent love life, watching over him like he was a virgin in dire need of a chastity belt. For future reference, Stiles made himself a mental memo that if he was ever – finally – going to develop a sex life he shouldn’t shout it from the rooftops, because the whole Sheriff’s department was apparently all out to cockblock him. The only thing that made this particular situation endurable, hilarious and therefore not annoying, apart from the fact that they weren’t dating – and thanks, but _no thanks_ , Derek was a creepy creeper – was Derek’s obvious discomfort at the far-fetched supposition.

When they finally arrived at the school building – because why bother with stealth when the police already assumed they were doing _something?_ \- Stiles clambered out of the car and leaned over the seat, his hands on the door as he bent down to get a look at Derek. “I’ll think of something. For the deputies,” he said and Derek looked at him. “It’s the least I can do for, you know, what I did. Not that it wasn’t totally your fault.”

Derek rolled his eyes, starting the engine.

“And the nurses, too. I’ll do that, ‘kay?” Derek nodded. “We’ll totally rock this. We’ll be like the best partners ever. We’ll be like Batman and Robin. Or Sherlock and Watson. Or Sam and Dean. Or Pinky and Brain. Just, you know, less gay … In all cases,” he amended with a frown, shutting the door before taking a few steps back. Before Derek could shift the gear he suddenly stepped forward again, knocking on the window. Derek wound it down, eyebrows raised in question.

“How are we going to do this?” Stiles asked. “You’ll call me or what? I don’t really want this kidnapping to become a habit. It’s scary as fuck. Though it might be helpful in building up a resilience if this is like going to happen for real or so.”

Derek rolled his eyes.

“Or, you know, since we are practically dating,” his lips twitched at the sigh Derek let out “you could at least treat me to a nice restaurant. We can order curly fries and you tell me all the gruesome details over a romantic candle light dinner. Sounds good?”

Stiles was surprised Derek didn’t drive off that very second.

“I’ll call you.”

“Goodie. My number,” he started, fishing for his phone.

“I still have it,” Derek said, then let the window roll up and hit the gas.

“What?” Stiles asked belatedly, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline, but to no avail. Derek was already gone in a cloud of smoke and he just stood there stupidly, following the car with his eyes. Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. Of course Derek had gotten a hold of his number. Stiles didn’t even want to think about _how_.

“Creeper,” he mumbled to himself, turning around and—smacked right into Lydia Martin. With a surprised yelp he stumble back but she just watched him sternly, head cocked to the side, a purse hanging from her arm as she pursed her strawberry lip-glossed lips, letting her eyes roam over him like it was the first time she saw him – which, sadly, was most likely the case.

“Oh, hey Lydia—” he began but she just marched past him before he could even compliment her fantastic slightly curled hair or her perfume or—yeah, he should just stop that.

“Interesting,” she drawled in passing and Stiles whirled his head around, flushing because Lydia Fucking Martin just complimented him. Or he hoped she had been complimenting him. He couldn’t hear any malicious intent so maybe she—or maybe she had just meant the Camaro? Or Derek?

Wait!

Was she starting a conversation? Was he supposed to _reply?_ Fuck, he didn’t reply. But she wasn’t making any signs like she was _waiting_ for an answer, and, screw this—

“Hey Lydia,” he said, following her.

She didn’t stop when she held her hand up, palm the only body part facing him, and simply said, “No.”

Stiles stopped, grumbling before he pushed his hands in his pockets and turned around to go back to his Jeep, one of the last cars still parked in the school parking lot. He threw his backpack in the passenger’s seat, climbed in after and leaned heavily back.

He had no idea what he was doing.

And he really didn’t know what the fuck he was supposed to do about the police.

They were just doing their jobs but Derek really didn’t deserve that kind of treatment. Or maybe he did? Stiles wasn’t sure anymore. Though thinking that it was just karma catching up to him was marginally easier on his own guilty conscious. But, like seriously. Broken lights? The deputies in Beacon Hills could only be even more obvious when they would actually smash the car’s lights in _after_ telling Derek they were broken.

He wasn’t sure what Derek had answered but the lights were still there and functioning so yeah, apparently, they didn’t do what any bad cop in a bad movie would do. McKenzie was a good guy, too, so was almost every other person in the department. Sure, there were a couple assholes but all in all Stiles liked them. But that didn’t mean McKenzie was passing on his message, even less that it would actually do Derek any good.

He eyed his backpack for a while before he reached for his phone.

His dad was probably already at work and calling him would obviously only get him to voicemail. Stiles chewed on his lower lip, typing in letters before erasing them in a frustrated groan. He literally had no idea how he was supposed to approach this subject. There was a turmoil going on in his head, voices screaming at him. He was pretty sure his father was avoiding him, long before the Derek thing actually, was disappointed in him, was maybe even scared for his safety nonetheless. Everything was awkward and strange and he didn’t know how to make it right again.

Stiles heaved a long sigh before he formulated an uncharacteristically sophisticated message of: “Dad, I’m really really sorry about what happened with Derek. He did nothing wrong. Can we please talk about this?”

He hovered over the send button for a moment, aware of the overly-polite tone that hopefully wasn’t going to give his dad a heart attack, before he eventually pressed sent.

This wasn’t going to end well.

* * *

Scott had always believed he was a somewhat good friend. Yes, he made mistakes and yes, he didn’t always know how to adapt to Stiles strange behavior and quirks. But that didn’t make him any less caring, any less involved.

Because, it was like that: Scott’s mom had made a promise. To Stiles’ mother and to Stiles’ father. So Scott and his mom were always watching Stiles carefully, for any flash backs, for any stress signals, for dark circles under his eyes speaking of sleepless nights. Always waiting for a panicked call and Stiles yelling into the phone that he didn’t know where he was, how he got there, what had happened.

The thing was, Scott’s mom had gone through it all before. And she was scared that Stiles was showing the same progressive neural loss as his mother had shortly before she had committed suicide. They had Stiles tested, though, the first time he started to act strange. But the results had come back negative. His mother had been relieved and alarmed at the same time, because apparently the symptoms were there. Scott had never known the details, had never caught the name of the illness that had wrecked Stiles’ mother and back then he had been too scared to ask.

Now he was still scared, because sometimes he would look at his mom and see her worry lines when Stiles shared meals with them, talking cheerfully about school and the stupid Lacrosse Team and the evil that was school work and Scott would bravely catch her eyes, when they flickered over to him and he was trying to communicate that everything was fine. That he wouldn’t start talking about some insane stuff like he had when he was younger. When he had believed his mother had been killed by werewolves. When he had tried to make them realize that there really was a bogeyman in his room. When he started to paint all over their house telling them he was trying to protect them. He had grown out of that after a long, long talk with Scott’s mom and his therapist. Never mentioned that stuff again.

Now, when Stiles would leave, talking about preparing lunch for his father and doing homework and helping with the housework she would only let her head fall into her hands the second the door slammed shut and Scott would sit next to her, shoulders short of brushing and he would tell her that everything was fine, that Stiles was fine, that Stiles was happy, that they were all doing a good job, and she would nod, take a deep breath and then whack him over the head, telling him to do his homework as well.

So Stiles might think Scott didn’t notice his recent behavior but he did. Because they were always, always looking out for him.

There was a pattern to it, starting with restlessness, dark circles under the eyes, nervous jumps and paranoia. After a while Stiles would shut down. That was the moment Scott knew they would have to face a situation neither of them was prepared for yet again.

And now the pattern had started to show itself again, was back after a long time, and all Scott could do was keep quiet in helpless desperation, watching and waiting. Because, see, Stiles was a walking problem. He was awesome on his good days, but a handful on the bad ones.

But Stiles had been really good for _years_ with a handful of difficult days. Days Scott had to hug him to sleep and couldn’t leave the room without Stiles clinging to his body. Those times had been scarce, manageable. Now everything seemed like it was going rapidly downhill again and it didn’t look like this time it would only be a day. No, it looked like this was going to be one of the really bad times. Those that took _weeks_ to heal for all the people involved.

When he heard his mother talking to the deputies over the phone, Scott never asked, because pushing Stiles would only end in lies. Lies Scott just knew all too well. So he only shrugged when his mother asked him about that childhood friend Stiles suddenly started to spend more time with. Stiles would tell him, Scott was sure. The second he felt like he was able to talk about it, Stiles would tell him. He always did. Definitely. Even when it was almost too late. So Scott waited, patiently. Mostly because Allison was a nice distraction.

Really nice.

With her hair that sometimes smelled of vanilla and peach and her laugh that sounded like the ringing bells in heaven and that smile she would flash at him sometimes when their eyes met during class or the way she traced her fingers over his arm during lunch, or her voice when she cheered him on in Lacrosse training and yeah, anyway.

Scott was waiting. And watching.

Like a sentinel.

Yes, that he was.

* * *

Working with a werewolf was… surprisingly boring, he realized when he woke up in Derek’s car. After freaking out for about half a second because he didn’t know where he was and why he was where he was. Until he noticed Derek glancing at him suspiciously. So he willed himself calm.

Like really totally calm.

He was fucking Zen, man.

Anyway, he didn’t know how long they had been at the house of stalker-victim number two. Two in his book. Not Derek’s. Derek’s list of stalker-victims must be longer. Like very, very long considering the crumbled pictures of all the nurses that obviously failed the sniffing test. He took a look at his watch, taking in date and time and glancing back at the man who was growling at his rearview mirror like it had personally offended him. For all he knew, it had. It was an inanimate object, but sure as hell, it had probably done _something_.

Maybe deforming Derek’s perfect jawline in the street light?

Who knew.

Not that Derek appeared halfway vain, if the state of his clothes was any indication. Considering that he was apparently living in the Hale house the boy shouldn’t be surprised about the stains of blood or sweat or dirt or soot or whatever sticking to the Henley. Not that he took much interest in Derek’s clothes and it wasn’t like he actually had room to talk with plaid draped all over himself. Just that he had to sit next to Derek for lengthy hours and, yeah, it wasn’t like the man smelled of roses and seriously, that blood on the rim? It made him nervous.

Maybe on purpose?

“You could use a shower,” Stiles suddenly told Derek without checking in with self-preservation, asking whether that was considered an acceptable, legit thing to say while still coming out alive after the words would leave his mouth. Derek didn’t acknowledge him but there might have been some slight sagging of his shoulder. “If you can’t go anywhere, by all means, use the shower in my house. And do some laundry. I’m not staying there at the moment, so at least someone uses it.”

“You said I’m not allowed. Unless it’s an emergency,” Derek replied after a very long pause, arching an eyebrow.

“Yeah, well, I consider that an olfactory emergency,” he replied bored. “But if you don’t want to, you can always sneak into the school locker room. One way or another, you’ve enough cops watching you to _not_ want to be seen with blood on your clothes. Even if it’s your own. God, I _hope_ it’s your own. You have not been hunting little mammals and eating them alive, have you?”

Unresponsive silence.

“Hey, I’m not judging, really. Whatever makes you happy, dude. But if you don’t have money for food I can give you that spinach lasagna in my freezer. It’s at least edible. I think.”

Derek still ignored him.

The hunter huffed, then wrote on the back of his hand a short note to bring heated lasagna the next time they were going to be car-sharing partners again. Otherwise nobody would ever eat that hideous thing and then it would develop some form of cold-resistant autonomous life in his freezer and he really didn’t want that. He hoped Derek wasn’t a picky eater, but seeing as he conceivably ate raw, very bloody and still furry meat for breakfast he could deal with a highly nutritional plant. What was good for Popeye’s muscles couldn’t be bad for Derek’s, no matter how disgusting it tasted.

So anyway, they were doing stakeout together – for reasons Derek didn’t feel the need to explain. Like as far as he can tell it had only been two times all in all and Stiles had now fallen asleep _both times_ in the car. He should be angry about the lack of his self-preservation but it was a fact that he still didn’t get much sleep and always expected some kind of ambush even if they had somehow semi one-sidedly established that Oliver wasn’t real. A simple hallucination. He sometimes wasn’t quite sure about what his mind was doing anyway, so it wasn’t completely off the table, he just had some justified doubts left. It wouldn’t be the most crazy thing that had happened to him.

But just thinking that all he had suffered through in the last weeks, the mental uproar, the delusions, the fear and panic was all just due to too much stress made him feel like some fucking delicate maiden who was fainting at the sight of blood – and yes, actually Stiles was one of the sissies that would usually faint in a comical nature at that particular sight – but point: it made him feel weak and he wasn’t weak.

He was a fucking hunter with three consecutive _solo_ -kills, multiple _team_ -kills and one embarrassing situation involving a wolf cub and an amused as well as bemused Alpha that unbelievably did not try to kill him on sight.

A big turning point in his life, actually.

Not the good kind, though.

Because both had known what they were. The Alpha had known he was a hunter-in-training, could smell the mountain ash, the wolfsbane and the gun powder, maybe even the blood of his kin but miraculously decided not to attack. And the hunter had known that it was a werewolf, that he should kill it, that he was supposed to kill it, but _he_ had sought _the pack_ out and went there against better judgment. Yet he had only one rule in tight unresolved situations: Kill it if it attacked. The rule did not apply to the man that had stood in front of him, though.

Him meeting the Alpha had been the second encounter that had made him second guess what he had been taught in his life. Until the anger returned with burning passion and he remembered what got him into this mess to begin with. When he remembered what had killed the mother and destroyed the father.

It was ridiculous how all his doubts had started with a cub. Ridiculous and clichéd and disgusting, but the thoughts had festered in him ever since. There were only violent encounters with other werewolves after that, all of them attacking _him_ and then the thing with Peter Hale happened. And then the _thing_ with Derek Hale happened, which all started with _Laura_ Hale.

The Hale Pack, as decimated as it was, was still a lot of trouble and Stiles realized how _foolish_ he had been walking up to a pack hideout two years ago, believing that he could run away before anyone noticed his intentions.

To his defense, he had been fourteen and had made his first solo-kill and therefore felt like an invincible superhero. Even if he wasn’t in the whole Hunter in-crowd, he sure as hell knew how special and awesome that was, okay?

So yes, he was anything but weak. He was a master manipulator, a master shot, a master … utilizer, a master rune-inventor and a master tinkerer. He wasn’t physically strong, he wasn’t fast but he damn well knew how to play his strengths and he wouldn’t let a mind screw him over. If it was screwing him over, that was. Still not hundred percent established.

Obviously Oliver, his personal stalking back yard shadow, was a bodiless being. If not a hallucination what else was it? A ghost? Well, he knew for a fact that ghosts were _not_ real. His grandpa—right, _his grandfather_ that fucking lying snake of a bastard—had told him. Oh, that man had told him a lot over the years. And omitted even more. About his mother. About her being a hunter. Which wasn’t necessarily a lie. He knew there were several types of hunters: hunters that specialized in developing new weapons and tech, hunters that were doing the actual hunt, hunters that were strictly used for the brains in an operation, hunters who acted as information brokers. There were hunters specialized on werewolves or kelpies or pixies or gnomes or maybe even dragons – hell, he really had to find out whether dragons were real one of these days – or whatever strange creatures inhabited the earth with humans. So yeah, maybe there was a hunter that specialized in herbs and healing, like his mother apparently had, but the question remained why his granddad had never told him.

He had always thought how odd it was that his mother didn’t possess any weapons. All she had used had been her runes and the herbs she had been growing in the backyard. His grandfather had told him that she had stopped hunting when she met his dad, that she had assumed it was too dangerous and that she wanted to have a family and she wanted to raise her children in a world free of mostly nocturnal murderous creatures.

Her family understood, had let her go without much of a fuss, but she had to chose. Because all her own family knew was hunting.

His mom had books about herbs, recipes for ointments and tinctures, for cleansing wounds, against poisons, she had runes for healing and protection. She never had anything dangerous in her notes, just defense never offense. Stiles had soon figured out that not everything was in human capacities, that something like a ‘spark’ was needed, an affinity for, yeah, well, _magic_ , as dumb as that sounded.

Stiles couldn’t cast spells – not for lack of trying, though – but he could make runes work and he could bend mountain ash to his will so he probably had that tiny little spark and he had inherited it from his mother, which technically made him a druid and not a witch?

But neither his mother’s sister nor her father had it. They could use mountain ash in the old-fashioned way only. Which meant manually. Stiles however just needed to think where it had to go and it did what he wanted. They had praised him for that a lot back then, claiming it very useful and it was. It had saved his life more than once.

So maybe his mother had been a hunter. But she must have been a druid, too. Not witch. Never witch. He wasn’t prepared to face the fact that he was half-witch. Half-druid was way better. Less broom jokes.

So yes, anyway, _Oliver_. Ghost?

Who knew. It didn’t do much anyway anymore, because it was gone. Never appeared again. Maybe all he had needed was someone pointing out the not so obvious. That he was just crumbling under pressure and made that shadow up, a mental mirage so to speak. Because yeah, Stiles’ mind did things like that sometimes, things he wasn’t proud of. Though it had been a very long time since it was that bad. Had been a long times since he had felt that much under pressure as well. Though he had to admit that the hallucination had added more to his pressure than everything else combined.

He would ask Derek if he knew about ghosts, but Derek had made it pretty clear that he wasn’t interested in anything related to that. The guy had a one-track-mind. Like a terrier. The second he was fixated on something he would bite and never let go no matter how many times he was kicked in the snoot. Or how far you lifted him up on his hind legs. Derek wouldn’t stop until he found out who killed his sister. Or his uncle. There was nothing else he was interested in.

He wondered, not for the first time, what would have happened if he had just told Derek his uncle had killed her and he had killed his uncle in retaliation. Whether Derek would be gone by now. Or whether Derek would have attacked him because he didn’t believe him.

It was too late for that now. He knew he had rubbed Derek the wrong way the moment he started to play his stupid mind tricks. He knew Derek wasn’t going to believe anything he told him now, because yeah, Stiles had been telling the truth, when the hunter had been lying. Derek had hit bulls eye and probably not even realized it himself.

So now here he was. In a Camaro. With a werewolf. Contemplating his life choices. While pointing out that the Camaro wasn’t the most subtle car. Derek argued that they couldn’t use the Jeep in case she would recognize it. After all they couldn’t be sure she hadn’t seen it that day in the woods. Stiles glowered approvingly at Derek, but still obnoxiously imputed that Derek just thought he was too cool for the Jeep.

The werewolf slapped him over the back of his head.

Maybe he should reconsider his number one rule when dealing with werewolves, because he was running out of excuses _not_ to kill Derek, considering how often that fucker had hit him in the last two days _alone_ , not counting their second meeting where Stiles’ head had more than once hit the wall.

Or maybe he should just teach Derek some manners.

The guy wasn’t big on them.

No signs of hunters as well. At least, again, not that he was aware of. They weren’t hunting _him_ down and Derek didn’t bring them up, so either he couldn’t care less or he already knew who they were and what they were after.

At least there was some humor in their situation, he assumed, as he finally understood – took him long enough, though – why Derek had kidnapped Stiles to the two locations. The first stalker-victim had been living in an apartment complex right in front of a playground. And this time they were parked at a house next to a kindergarten.

The hunter seriously wasn’t sure if Derek’s brain was functioning right, because he was pretty much convinced the werewolf had brought him along to preemptively deflect further accusations of getting called on on his disreputable pedophiliac tendencies.

“Derek,” he said and turned to watch the man, who’s shoulders stiffened at that single world, like he was expecting a blow to his body. “Do you really think the ‘No, officer, I didn’t try to seduce that six year old kid across the street with candy, just ask that sixteen year old kid in my car I’m absolutely not being charged with stalking’ approach is any better than you lurking alone in front of children related things in the middle of the night when, in all honesty, no sensible parent would let their kids out?”

Derek scowled at him.

Angry that he had figured out the reason behind the abduction? Which seriously didn’t help to discard the pedo-theory. Or angry that he had called him on on that stupid idea?

“If you’d ask me, which you obviously haven’t because then we wouldn’t be here in the first place, I think both options look rather bleak for you. The only difference is that the police are already aware of your impure intentions with my chaste nimble body. However that has happened.”

“I think I know how,” the man growled at him, rolling his eyes and hey, it wasn’t his fault that everyone suddenly decided that Derek was the come alive pedo-bear. Or pedo- _wolf_? Or, oh, oh _fuck_! Pedo- _der!_

It was…

It was fucking perfect.

There was a sudden twitching in his fingers as he let out an evil cackle. He had the dire urge to photoshop Derek’s face over the bear’s face and write Pedo-Der in some pink cutesy princess font above or beneath it. Oh God. He could print it on stickers. Or use it as wrapping paper. Or print the logo on a T-Shirt, no, even better _a Henley_. Maybe patch it on Derek’s leather jacket somewhere he couldn’t see.

Oh God, the possibilities!

“I can’t believe I didn’t come up with it sooner,” he laughed to himself, then turned to face Derek. “You are _Pedo-Der_! It’s—”

He heard the crack before he felt the pain as his head connected with the dashboard.

So yeah, working with a werewolf was apparently boring _and_ painful.

And maybe a little bit fun.

* * *

The discussions were spinning out of control and bets were placed. Scott wasn’t sure if deputies were allowed to do that. For all they claimed that they were just looking out for Stiles they sure had their fun on his behalf as well. It was good-naturedly though, warm, with a protective edge. He wasn’t sure what deputies were supposed to do in situations like these and it felt like they really didn’t knew either. It wasn’t like they had proof or anything and his mother, as Stiles’ legal guardian, was the one who held the reins in these decisions.

Scott wasn’t even sure if Stiles was aware of what he had done when he bailed out the “hottest guy in town, with a body like a Greek God and cute little ears and smoldering eyes and an ass you just want to slap”. Quote, Unquote. Because yeah, he wouldn’t ever say stuff like that about a dude. Specially not about the dude Stiles – as Tara was indisputably convinced of – may be dating.

Though he suspected they weren’t dating.

Not that Scott doubted that Stiles had the ability to get a guy who had “a jawline to bite and lick”. He was Scott’s bro and a genius and loyal and funny and all in all the bestest guy someone could ever go for and a total catch, so cheers to Stiles that finally someone as hopefully equally terrific as Stiles had appeared on the horizon and noticed that.

Stiles was great.

Just a little bit damaged.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t get a “hot stud with spiky hair you want to grab while you gasp underneath his fingers trailing down your spine”. And seriously, women were _weird._

All but Allison. Because Allison was a goddess for even talking to him and a saint and a good friend for trying to include Stiles in their activities. Allison was the best and the way she smelt, like vanilla and—

And yeah, where was he going?

Stiles, right.

Why they weren’t dating.

It wasn’t because Stiles wouldn’t be able to hold back the news that he was no longer a virgin as well. But then again, maybe they hadn’t done… the deed yet. Maybe. Hell, even Allison and Scott were waiting. And apparently the mysterious stranger “who might be a serial killer” – joys to that by the way – was a few years older.

Scott wasn’t going to bring up the topic of age of consent like the deputies did.

No, not at all.

Stiles was in some way more mature than most adults and if he wanted to date a guy twice as old as they were so be it. Even if it was slightly gross. Really gross. That was like Scott was dating his mom.

Anyway, yeah, so it wasn’t Stiles being almost perfect that made him doubt the existence of that relationship, nor the fact that the guy was, well, a guy, neither the fact that Stiles was most likely still a virgin – until proven otherwise.

No, it wasn’t that at all.

It was a hunch.

Because he knew how he was with Allison. All dreamy eyed, distracted, but the good kind. No, Stiles was jumpy, Stiles didn’t look happy or dreamy or _good_ at all and he was biting his nails and the skin around the nails and scratching his arms without realizing and always looking around, constantly on alert, and then listening to music in a volume that probably was damaging his eardrums, and Scott was really getting worried.

And then there was that call from his mother cryptically asking him about a ‘Derek Hale’. Scott was confused and distracted by Allison touching his hand to concentrate but he really wanted, so he tried and listened to his mother and something about Stiles’ friend from childhood and that was kind of a hands-off topic because when Stiles had needed him the most Scott hadn’t been in his life, forcefully dragged away by his ass of a father.

So he might have met someone else during that time and Scott wouldn’t know because when he returned to Beacon Hills it was really bad between them. They had a lot of trouble getting back the way they used to be. Mostly because Stiles was hardly talking anymore. Which was why Scott never got angry with Stiles always talking now, even if he couldn’t always follow his rant, but it was good to see him talking. If he was talking he was happy and that was always a good thing. So Stiles _not_ talking like he did now was a very, very disturbingly bad thing. Though Stiles was always telling him he was fine. But that was the problem. Stiles was _always telling him he was fine_ even if he wasn’t.

And then suddenly, from one day to the other, everything was just gone. Rings under the eyes lightening, the twitching and gnawing and chewing stopping. The tremor in Stiles’ voice when he was talking in forced glee, the shifty glances, the startling and uptick of breath that Scott only caught because he was seriously listening to it. It stopped. At the same time Stiles started to sneak out of the house at night and came back home a few hours later. Stiles suddenly looked good, calmer, not exactly completely happy but better.

Whether that was strictly related to “the guy who may or may not be involved with a drug gang”, yeah, Scott didn’t know.

But dating or no dating, there was a lot going on and Scott needed to have a talk with that guy. About intentions and about what he knew and most of all, about kicking his ass if he ever dared hurting Stiles.

Yeah, most of all the last part.

And of course telling him that Stiles was important and that this with Allison and girl- or boyfriend was a big thing between them. And because, even as friends, and as perfect as Stiles almost was, it wasn’t going to be easy. Being with Stiles.

No, it was going to be a roller coaster ride on soda and cotton candy. And that guy should know about it before he suddenly decided it was too much to handle and backed off the moment he had irrevocably weaseled his way into Stiles’ life. Because Stiles didn’t deal well with loss. Of course. He might act all aloof and tough but he wouldn’t let anyone in easily. And the fact that he let him in, yeah, that was, well, a really, really big deal and Scott had to make sure that the guy understood that.

* * *

After the third day Stiles had to stay with Derek in his car on stakeout of Victim Three with a school for gifted children just a hundred feet down the street, Stiles decided that Derek Hale was violent as shit. Most of the time he didn’t even know what he was doing wrong that made the man growl at him in frustration. For all Stiles knew he had just been innocently sitting there, daydreaming or sleeping, when all of a sudden he was waking up to a massive headache, completely and utterly confused as to why he had been treated to such violent attention.

But it was better than sitting alone in a room, freaking out about everything that was going on. Stiles would never ever in his life admit this to himself or anyone till the day he died – which was hopefully still a far, far way of – but he felt safe with Derek Hale. Somewhat. In a calculated risk way.

The little space was worse than the violence, though. It was quiet in the car and whenever Stiles so much as flinched Derek would growl and Stiles would freeze in the middle of whatever he had been trying to do. It was so quiet Stiles became keenly aware of every awkward sound his body was making. He could hear his heart beating in his chest in a nervous staccato or to some tango that was probably in his head. Every breath he took was so embarrassingly loud that he tried to suffocate himself by simply not breathing. _Eating_ was like pure torture. He was sure Derek could hear his eye lids flutter because Derek’s hearing was _supernatural_. He had heard Stiles quarreling with Scott on the phone when he was scouring the petrol station for snacks while Derek was fueling his tank. Apart from _creepy_ it was totally _surreal_. For a terrifying second Stiles wondered if Derek really could have overheard him singing Madonna in his room. And then just willed that thought away.

Three hours into their third stakeout of Sister Maria Bernadette’s home, who sounded like a real sweet woman from her profile, Stiles was fed up with the silence and his self-consciousness and turned the radio on.

The fight over the station was brutal.

It left Stiles with a few bruises around his wrist that would turn into ugly shades of green and blue. He was just lucky that no one noticed the bruises or if they did, ignored them because, Stiles? Yep, not a popular person. Not that he really cared. Actually it was a _bliss_ that he was almost invisible to 99% of the school now.

He wished the same applied to the deputies, though.

Their caring was heart-warming, really, but annoying as hell. Stiles didn’t need protection from Derek – well, not all the time – didn’t need a constant watchdog in front of his house during the day or Scott’s house during the night. Not that they camped there, God forbid, but he had seen them more than once passing the streets, waiting a bit before moving on like his house was included in their daily and nightly patrols.

He wrote his father about it and got an answer when he had been sleeping, apologizing for him staying at work for so long, for having to stay with Melissa, that he was at least trying to make sure he was alright even though he was working and to invite Derek for dinner some time – seeing as they knew each other from _baseball times_.

Stiles had rolled his eyes at that.

But, well, it was good. He felt good. With nothing out there to chase him at the moment. Even talking to Derek’s fuzzy caterpillars was starting to become fun. Actually, so much fun he regretted ever putting up the stupid rule of Derek using his words. Because his eyebrows, they were nice and easy to talk to and he could interpret them the way he wanted. He was really getting good at reading them as well.

But Derek’s words?

They were _rude_ , man. And brash. And straight-forward. That was, if he used them. Usually there was an uncommunicative armor around Derek. It wouldn’t let anyone in or something out. Derek was more guarded and closed off than Fort Knox. However, there were these short moments when Derek would crack under Stiles’ myriad of gibberish, showing a ridiculous amount of sass and sarcasm. It was gone the moment the words had left his mouth and Derek realized what he had done in horror. Like showing a human side was a crime.

Stiles felt decidedly disappointed whenever Derek closed off again before he had time to even give an appropriate comeback. But then again, his responses were delayed anyway. Because there was always a quiet moment of awe when Derek involuntarily decided to give back as good as Stiles delivered. The first time it happened actually made him panic, the second stopped his brain dead, the third and every other time after made him chuckle in delight.

He should be insulted. Probably. But it was difficult to stay mad at Derek when the man looked like he hated himself for even acknowledging Stiles’ very existence by replying. And anyway, Derek was probably the only other person rivaling Stiles in his social awkwardness which made him unintentionally funny.

He never knew what triggered Derek into responding or even interacting. Mostly things that annoyed him. Like that time he threw Stiles pen out of the window because the clicking was getting on his nerves. So yeah, Stiles did have a habit of furiously clicking them when he was nervous or deep in thought but that didn’t mean he could just throw them away.

Or that one time Derek snapped at him because he messed up the lyrics to ‘We Didn’t Start the Fire’. Though the joke was on Derek there because Stiles wouldn’t stop making fun about him because he apparently knew the correct lyrics to that song.

At this point in their strange relationship, Stiles actually believed he had coaxed Derek out of his shell. Just a little. He was becoming more communicative and less physical when he wanted Stiles to shut up and Stiles was becoming less afraid of Derek, as he had figured that the bark was worse than the bite most of the time. At least he was pretty sure the maniac wasn’t out to kill him anymore and it made him gutsy.

Therefore he was sitting in the beautiful Camaro and singing the most pesky song he could come up with to complain about the lack of entertainment in or around the car. It annoyed the hell out of Derek - if the nervous tick in his eyebrows was any indication

Which only encouraged Stiles more.

“Stop that,” Derek finally growled in frustration after three verses of suffering. And progress! He wasn’t banging Stiles’ head on something to make him stop!

However, Stiles just pushed his index finger into Derek’s face in a gesture of ‘be silent’, though almost immediately retracted it again, because this was _Derek_. Derek would bite his finger off, swallow it without even chewing to make sure that Stiles would never get his digit back ever again.

“Dude, no, I’m stuck with you,” he replied instead after finishing with the mandatory ‘The End’, his hands flailing around, “bored out of my mind because your interpretation of fun is staring apathetically out the window, so you’ll at least let me sing the Doom Song! For six months straight.”

“Six months.”

“Until drool comes out of your mouth and we reach planet earth!”

Derek stared at him as if he had even more of a screw loose than usual and Stiles’ eyes widened in horror. “Dude! Don't tell me you don't know Invader Zim?!”

Derek blinked.

Stiles stared, open-mouthed and completely incredulous. “Peasant,” he scoffed. Derek raised his eyebrows. “Ugly space monster! Human stink beast!” he continued unwavering, pointing accusingly at the other’s face.

“I showered.” Derek stared at his finger before he looked back at Stiles, like he was actually contemplating biting it off and that was the second time in under ten minutes, but Stiles only huffed out a surprised laugh at the stupid sobriety in these words. “And the political correct term is werewolf, not ‘human beast’.”

“What?” Stiles asked after a pause that had gone on for so long it didn’t even warrant a follow-up question, but, what? Something in the back of his mind laughed hard and he didn’t even know why, but his brain was racking to come up with a pop culture reference he might have missed.

“Are you a fan of Buffy?” he eventually asked, just to find out the right direction of approach.

Derek rolled his eyes. “What’s buffy?”

Stiles let out a gurgled noise. “Jesus, no. You _didn’t_!”

Obviously, the conversation was over for Derek as he turned his head away in dismissal, but Stiles was still trying to wrap his brain around the fact that there was someone on this planet that didn’t know _Buffy_. Invader Zim, okay, that was, yeah, not actually something he could picture Derek watching. Ever. But _Buffy?_

“God, what happened to your child hood?” he asked almost pole-axed.

Derek clenched his jaw. “Burned down. Thanks for asking.”

Stiles snapped his mouth shut immediately, awkwardly shifting in his seat, eyes stubbornly fixed on the dashboard while he decided to never open his mouth again because he would only put his foot in.

Just once.

Just once Stiles wished his brain was communicating more with his mouth.

He didn’t even dare to glance at Derek to find out how angry the man was. He was only saved by Scott’s text message and Stiles had been all but willing to pick up the phone and keep himself busy with his touch-pad and the guilty conscience as he read the message.

Stiles knew he had actively ignored Scott, who kept calling him almost hourly, and was asking him to play video games, to hang out with him and Allison at the mall, asking for study sessions, baiting him with Lydia’s presence, asking what he wanted for dinner, asking if he was there for dinner and not just sleep, asking if he was alright, if he was with someone. The last one had Stiles gnawing on his fingers, thinking about a very good excuse for his nightly activities with Derek.

So yeah, being with Derek was boring and painful. And frustrating. And very bad for his guilty conscience.

And sometimes, well sometimes surprisingly amusing, too.

* * *

It was easy to deal, to forget the man in the locker room when there were other boys running around, changing clothes, talking strategies, bitching about teachers. It was easy to concentrate on Scott fawning over Allison, on Jackson snarling at everyone who got too close, on Danny smiling benevolently at him before wandering off with his stupidly attractive shoulder blades.

It was very easy to ignore the occasionally transparent shape, shifting and flitting and flickering like a holo suffering from voltage fluctuation. Though most of the time it was firm and vivid and vibrant and corporal. He knew it was yet another mind thing, so ignoring the shit out of that man was the only logical modus operandi. People thought he was crazy enough as it was even without acknowledging _hallucinations_.

There had been one time where he had glanced over to the guy, when he thought it was safe, his hallucination busy with watching Isaac Lahey in a spine tingling predatory way that made Stiles afraid of his own subconscious. However the second he had looked at the holo, the man had turned his head and narrowed his impossibly blue – gray? – eyes at him. He had panicked for a moment, knowing he just screwed everything up because, oh man, he had just acknowledged the hallucination. The man had continued to stare at him, then suddenly widened his eyes in surprise. Before something else could happen Stiles had grabbed his attire and bolted halfway dressed out of the locker room.

And now Stiles wished he had just skipped school for that day. Or Lacrosse. Really. Skipping Lacrosse wouldn’t be so bad. Just that Scott had made him promise to show up after detention, that he wanted to spent more time with him. Which was the only reason he was in this situation. And it sucked. Big times.

Actually, Stiles blamed Harris. Fucking Harris for keeping him late. He was sure the chemistry teacher had it out for him these days. That was the third detention in a row because Stiles had fallen asleep in his class. It wasn’t his fault that that guy was totally uninspiring, okay? And that the lessons were boring. All that hypothetical crap about atomic structures was far too abstract to concentrate on, when the words “perhaps”, “maybe”, “possibly” and “most likely” were used in an abundance even when his brain wasn’t clouded from some serious sleep deprivation because he had stayed out late. Yeah, maybe he shouldn’t have said that to Harris’ face but still.

Damn Harris.

No, it was absolutely not his own mouth that got him into this weird situation.

Nope, definitely Harris.

And Derek.

Because what _wasn’t_ Derek’s fault?

And this weird situation… Hallucinations and delusions weren’t supposed to approach him. Especially not when he was alone in the locker room because he had spent the last hour manually copying a dissertation on the atomic orbital theory – which was altogether more enjoyable than Harris’ lectures. Which he let the man know as he had slapped the papers on his teacher’s desk and walked out without looking back in fear their eyes could meet and he would crumbled to dust or turn to stone or burst up in flames.

“Stiles,” the hallucination greeted and Stiles stopped mid-movement in taking his undershirt off, and then rolling it back down. The man was way too close and it felt like he could feel his breath on his skin. But Stiles still ignored him nonetheless, hands folded in his lap as his feet nervously tapped on the floor, his head hung low.

 _Illusion. Illusion. Illusion,_ he repeated like a mantra.

“Stiles,” the man repeated. “Do you remember me?”

He took a deep breath in, shutting his eyes tightly.

“I mean, ah, it had been—dark,” he continued with an audible frown.

 _Not real, not real, not real. All in my head._ Stiles ranted internally, finally gripping the hem of his undershirt again and pulling it over his head to get dressed for Lacrosse training. Yeah, he was going to put on his attire, he was going to go out there on the field and he was going to fucking tackle Jackson into ground to vent his frustration. It was an awesome plan. It was a good coping mechanism. Had helped him with everything his mind was using to screw him over.

_Just ignore. Ignore. Ignore._

Stiles had been on edge for days. He was currently wary about every interaction. Expecting shit going down. There was a lot that could explain that hallucinated dude. Like how he was always expecting to meet one of the guys that had hunted him and Derek in the woods. Maybe meeting someone who was conspiring with Axe Nurse Bitch. There was a lot of stress going on, okay? They could cut him some slack, right?

“I can help you. And Derek.”

Stiles’ eyes went wide.

No, no, no. This was just what he was wishing for. Hoping for. A hallucination knew that.

“I’m not a hallucination,” the man said, with a pout.

It was the first time Stiles actively turned around to look at the delusion. A man with short slightly curly light brown hair and impossibly steel blue eyes, sharp and defined features, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Derek is family,” the man explained with a tight lipped smile. “Which is why I want to help him.”

Hah! He _knew_ it was Derek’s fault!

It was shitty as hell, still, but at least he was right! And of course his delusion was apparently a part of Derek’s dead family. Yeah, right. He hallucinated a fucking ghost.

“Then go haunt Derek,” he replied as he finally found his words again. Because at the slight chance that this was _not_ a hallucination it should creep the shit out of Derek and not him.

“Oh, Stiles,” the man cooed and _woah_ , real bad case of goosebumps right there. “I can’t talk to him. And you’re the only one who can see me.”

“Right. Because you’re my fucking delusion.”

“No,” the man smiled, “Because we have—how do I explain—a special connection?”

Stiles gaped. He wasn’t even ashamed of the fact that he was staring at that guy for like an hour or so. Felt like an hour at least. Maybe minutes. Half a second?

But come on… Why was his own head so freaking _creepy?_

“I think… uh… I need to go. Or call someone. I uh.” He stood up, thought about getting as far away from the guy as possible, maybe yelling for help. Or more likely screaming bloody fire because that would get other’s attention faster, right? Where was Finstock’s crappy surrogate whistle anyway?

“I never thought I would be able to speak with you.”

“That so? Looks like you caught me in the right moment then.”

“I really did. You are usually very protected. Someone really loves you, Stiles.”

“Yeah, well, don't act all surprised,” he replied, slightly offended while he slowly backed away, hands held up to his chest, palms facing the hallucination in a calming manner. The man stood up with him, approaching. Was he really thinking about running away from a hallucination now? He bet the thing couldn’t even _touch_ him. “I do have a likeable personality.”

“I know.” There was a wide smile. “I like you, too.”

Stiles’ eyebrows shoot up as goosebumps ran all over his body. For real. His subconscious was screwing with him. Sending him a fucking _pedo_. Must have been all these talks about Derek and statutory rape, really. Influenced by all that trash talk from the deputies. Stiles seriously hoped it was the reason because he really wasn’t prepared to think about what it would constitute otherwise.

“Yeah, well, you’re essentially a part of me, right?” he said, trying to reason with himself. “You have to like me. Would be strange if you didn’t. Like, you know, I hate myself? And that’s just… strange, right?”

“Stiles, I’m not a part of you.”

“Well then… not flattered. Like at all.”

He hit the wall of the showers, looking behind him and trying to figure out how far the door was, if he could make a run for it. The man chuckled and Stiles tried to ignore the persistent gaze he was obviously just imaging.

“You don’t have to be afraid. I don’t want to hurt you, Stiles. I just want to talk.”

“Usually I’m all for talk. Most of the time I can’t shut up and all. Ask my friends. They know. And yeah, well, you probably know, too. But right now I think I’m in a bit of a hurry, you understand?”

“Oh Stiles,” the man cooed, “You are smarter than this.”

“Oh no, I’m not,” Stiles defended his dumbness. Because he was dumb. Dumber than dumb. He was willingly working with a dude that broke into his house. That should be enough proof for his inability to make sensible decisions.

“Don’t you want Derek gone?”

“At the moment? No. Actually right now I wish he was here.”

Because Derek… yeah… no. He wasn’t even sure what Derek could do. Probably nothing. Yet his presence reassured him. Watching the stoic face barely lighted by street lamps was soothing, listening to his steady breath was comforting. Just knowing someone was there, when he had felt so baselessly alone for a long, long time even with Scott and his father. If Derek were there, Stiles wouldn’t see the hallucination, he was sure.

“Then… you want to help him?” The guy sounded mildly surprised, which hey! He had worked his _ass off_ for Derek. His own mind should _know_ that.

“I think barely two hours of sleep should give that away.”

Geez, this whole thing just reminded him too much of one of the NGE endings. Like was this an interrogation with his own self? Was he here trying to figure out his own motivation? His—urks, just thinking about it made him sick—feelings? Stiles didn’t sign up for this shit.

“I know a way. If you really want to help him.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“It’s an ancient inca’ish ritual—”

“Oh my God! Are you proposing human sacrifices? Fuck, is my own subconsciousness—” Stiles’ eyes went wide. “I didn’t realize I was so desperate.”

“No, though blood is indeed involved. Not yours.”

“Animal sacrifice? Nope. No. Nein—”

“Don’t be silly, Stiles”

“Nyet. Nie. Non. ... Nay.”

“No one’s going to die,” his hallucination said oddly patient, even waiting for the end of his enumeration.

“Not listening to you,” Stiles continued. _God_ , could his mind really be any more screwed? Where was that coming from anyway? Not that it really mattered, because it was going to have to go away. Stat. Even if he had to force it. Like hitting himself unconscious. Or, hey, maybe it was like hiccups? Shock, right? Yes, maybe a god awful cold shower would help? That would be splendid!

The man opened his mouth to continue and Stiles already fumbled for the faucet when suddenly the door was flung open and Scott stumbled in, looking around before his eyes latched on Stiles, who was still plastered against the tile wall. “Dude. Finstock is like getting all in my face because we’re not pressed together at our hips. He says you not sitting next to me disrupts his chi or yin and yang or whatever. And there’s no way that Greenberg can pull off your constant chatter. So you better get your ass out there, before he forces him to read the Lacrosse rules out loud like you did last week to get me on the team!”

“Always appreciate being needed,” Stiles whizzed in faked offhandedness. And wow, his act must have been really bad when even Scott immediately picked up on it, because he dropped the Lacrosse stick he was holding in his hand as he promptly rushed over to him. “Stiles. Are you okay? Are you—is this—”

“It’s fine, I’m fine, really.”

Scott was so fast by his side he was surprised by the sudden touch on his shoulders, warm hands rubbing them, as his breath started to hitch. “We’ll do this, okay? Like always. I’m right here, okay?” Scott assured, his voice forced calm with a worriedly minor tint of panic.

“What like always?” Stiles could hear his voice growing shrill, because what the fuck was Scott talking about?

Scott’s movements suddenly froze, and he stared at him wide-eyed. “I don’t know. What are _you_ talking about?”

Stiles let his eyes look over Scott’s shoulder. The man was still there, completely ignored by his friend and it shouldn’t surprise him and it didn’t but it fucking sucked. “You won’t understand.”

“You can talk to me, you know that, don’t you? I’m here for you,” Scott tried to calm him down, pulling him into a tight hug and Stiles closed his eyes to blend out the man staring holes into him, his heart pounding in his chest, blood rushing in his ears and then he surrendered to his urge, wrapping his arms tight around Scott’s shoulder. But he could still feel it. The thing that wasn’t there, that shouldn’t be there. The thing he—his eyes flew open as he pressed his mouth against Scott’s shoulder, stifling a scream or cry or sob. Because he could vaguely remember. The figure of fire. The shadow behind his yard. The man watching him at Lydia’s party. Seeing him in the woods—he had seen him before. Had seen him on his knees. Howling in pain, clutching his shoulder, talking, almost whispering. And the voice. So familiar. Stiles’ hands dug harder into Scott’s shoulder, and then he pushed him away.

He finally _knew_.

“It’s you,” he gasped.

“Yeah, it’s me, Stiles. It’s me, Scott!”

“It has always been me.” The man smiled fondly. “Oh but don’t worry, this was never about you.”

Stiles stared open mouthed, frozen on the spot, heart hammering in his chest, hands trembling.

It wasn’t a hallucination.

It was _real_ and he really didn’t need that, because that meant—what _did_ it mean? What was he thinking? What was this nagging feeling in the back of his head? The rhythmic knocking—what was this? Who was _you_? The man in the woods, the one he had never met, the one who had died, who he had _seen_ die even if he couldn’t remember. Who was _dead_ —

“I’m here, Stiles. Everything’s fine. Are you listening to me?”

Hands were grabbing his shoulder as his head suddenly snapped up in confusion and he took Scott’s panicked features in with bewildered unease. Until he saw the man standing right next to him. With a strangled gasp he pushed Scott harshly to the side, scrambling away from the wall, awkwardly side-stepping the man and then hurrying to the piles of clothes he could see on the bench, rummaging through them until he finally found his watch.

“You are so very interesting, Stiles.”

“Stiles, what—”

The boy interrupted Scott by spinning on his heels, facing him; facing Peter Hale at the same time. Peter smirked and he could barely punch down the urge to exorcise the man. Not that he actually knew how that worked. He would have to check that out. Or ask around. Someone would know.

“What happened?” Scott asked, advancing slowly.

“It’s not like I specifically need you. But I would have indeed—” Peter’s voice turned to static as the hunter snapped the watch back around his wrist, annoyed at the assumption that the man actually thought for a second that he would listen to him if that was his opening phrase. The man was gone and everything left in the room was a bewildered Scott and lingering panic.

“Dude, you okay?” the brunette asked when Stiles remained silent.

“Yeah,” he croaked, clearing his throat. “I really… I’m fine.”

Scott pressed his lips together. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I… am.”

No, he wasn’t.

Because Peter Hale.

 _Peter Hale_.

Who was supposed to be _dead_ , who he had _shot_ that night. Who was hopefully buried six feet under. Who appeared in his fucking reality.

What. The. Fuck.

“You were… freaking out.”

“Yes… I… I thought,” he stopped. There was no explanation that wouldn’t make Scott panic. Telling him he heard voices or sounds would freak Scott out as much as telling him he thought he saw someone. Instead of answering, he averted his eyes and turned away, only to look back quizzically when Scott suddenly pulled a sharp breath in.

“Dude, what happened to your back?”

He froze. And then he realized a slightly tickling sensation at his back, something wet slowly trickling down his skin. Scott was on him before he could even formulate a perfect lie and pushed him back on the bench. “Shit, what is that?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he diverted sternly, showing the watch to Scott who eyed it for a short moment in confusion. “This is very, very important.”

Scott nodded, but he knew his friend was barely listening. Rolling his eyes, he snapped his fingers in front of Scott’s face before he continued. “Eyes on me, Scott. _Important_.”

“Important, yes,” Scott replied, eyes forced back on Stiles.

“You absolutely have to make sure that I _always_ , you hear me, _always_ wear this watch, okay?”

His friend furrowed his brow in confusion.

“Always, Scott. Even to Lacrosse.”

“Man, you can’t do that,” he groaned. “Finstock will have our asses. He’ll have _your_ ass for something like that. Potential risk of danger.”

“Scott, please, it’s Lacrosse. There’s always a risk.”

Scott scowled, or attempted to scowl. It always looked more like an adorable pout. Not that he would let him know that. “Okay, okay, whatever you say dude. You’ve asked me stranger things. But if Finstock kills you for it, I’ve absolutely nothing to do with that.”

“Sure. And another thing.” He waited for a small nod of acknowledgment. “If something like this _ever_ happens again, you can do it. Call my name, that is. You understand?”

It was probably that very moment that Scott knew something was up. There had been no more than four occasions in all these years where he had allowed Scott to use his name. His real given name. They had always been short of leaving Stiles to a complete mental breakdown.

“Stiles—”

“Just promise,” he said, his hand shooting up to stop whatever Scott was trying to ask.

Scott looked him in the eyes, probably looking for something that was long gone. Then he sighed and nodded. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

“Best bro _ever_ ,” he said, pleased, ruffling Scott’s hair.

“Can we now check out that injury?”

“Yeah, okay.”

Scott didn’t waste any time, turning Stiles around on his shoulder to examine the wound, before he let out a low whistle and started wiping the blood off with decisive strokes before he patched it up. Scott didn’t ask how he had gotten it, why the blood was an almost black liquid staining the towel Scott had fetched from… somewhere. He hoped it was Jackson’s.

There was a moment he used to appreciate Scott’s sporadic efficiency. He was really good at bandaging, his usual insecurities and hesitation vanished as he focused on the task at hand, using what he had learned at Deaton’s clinic.

Meanwhile, he let his mind gather.

If there was something he was sure of, it was that the wound forged a connection between Peter and him. It had to be the thing that let Peter reach Stiles even behind wards. Maybe the runes were really, really working – apart from Derek, not an issue right now, though – but the wound, the something that had been stuck in his shoulder, the something that was thrown at him and he had forgotten ever since, the blood that had been mingled in mud and whatever parts he might have swallowed – that was what made Peter get a hold of him regardless of protection. And it was something that Peter had _planned_ while he was in that mountain ash circle. It explained the pained growls and uproar he had simply brushed off back then, assuming the guy was crazy. Which he wasn’t. He was a fucking _genius_.

He didn’t know what happened to what had stuck in his wound, where it had gone after it was picked out, didn’t know whether there was _still_ something left in his shoulder but it hadn’t been a bone, it hadn’t been a stone, it had been a werewolf’s _claws_.

But wherever it was now, he had to find it, had to throw it out to at least be safe in his own home. The wards hidden all over the school and other places he frequented and his body accessory could only protect him so much. They had done a very good job so far and he took a little moment to feel smug about it because they were _his_ runes. The ones he had invented, not the ones he had copied of his mother’s books or the fences.

But they weren’t enough to keep the man completely away. He might have to figure out new ones, more challenging ones, tougher, sturdy, he had—his eyes widened.

It was October.

October was _his_ month. October was when he was the most powerful under the full moon. He could do it. Increase the wards just by using paint from berries he would have to reap from the woods. It was dangerous, seeing as it was the full moon, but it was his chance to make it happen. And he had to find that piece of claw he had taken out of his shoulder.

And whatever was still left in his body.

And he had to do it all very, very soon.

And Derek. Yep. He would have to keep his preparations a secret from Derek during that time. For a short moment he thought about putting him on a leash. Literally. With full mountain ash circle and everything.

Well then.

If he couldn’t find a distraction for Derek in a few days, that was going to be his Plan B.

* * *

When Scott saw the “hottest car that ever touched the roads of Beacon Hills” parked in the grocery store’s parking lot and recognized the “broad back you just want to press against” – seriously, women, _weird_ – he didn’t even think things through and just went up to him, leaving his bike with the groceries behind, because, well, Beacon Hills. The only one who would dare steal a bike with milk hanging out from the saddle bag was Stiles Stilinski and Scott was pretty sure he wouldn’t steal Scott’s unless absolutely necessary and then it wouldn’t be stealing because Scott would have allowed it anyway.

For just a second Scott hesitated in his approach when he saw the face of the guy in the fading street lamp light and then froze. Because how could he have not realized that the guy the sheriff department had been talking about was _Derek Hale_? Stiles’ allegedly best friend from when Scott wasn’t there. The guy they had met in the woods. The guy Stiles knew the name of. And Scott hadn’t even batted an eyelash at that because he had assumed it was just a Stiles’ thing. Knowing everyone.

Like fuck.

Scott was stupid.

“Derek Hale,” he simply stated and the man suddenly stopped, car door open as he had been about to get in.

“Scott McCall,” the man replied, getting seated. Scott beamed. Because of course if the man recognized him that meant Stiles had _talked_ about him. So, of course, he sauntered over to the Camaro – beautiful indeed –, leaned against the hood and looked down at the man, before he felt slightly strange in that position and instead hunched, looking up at the man with almost dreamy eyes.

Man, _Stiles had talked about him._

Then he frowned.

Hopefully only good stuff, but then it was Stiles. Between outrageous lies and exaggeration was always the thin line of truth that people who knew him should be able to pick up on.

“What do you want?” the guy who had realized that Stiles was great growled at him.

Scott just smiled.

“Needed to have a chat with you,” he simply said, his arms propped on his knees and cheeks on the hands. Or maybe the other position had been better? Like more authority? Not that Scott was the most authoritarian person but then again what he wanted to talk about was partially serious so maybe… But that could anger the man. Like Scott was patronizing him. Which he realized mid-movement and he suddenly stopped. But fuck no, his muscles weren’t trained for a semi-hunched position so he continued up until he stood completely again and took a few steps back.

“About what?” the Awesome-and-totally-not-gross-Derek said. Because he really wasn’t gross and as old as Scott had assumed. A few years older, as Stiles had said. But then again, what exactly were a few years? Five? Ten? Twenty?

“How old are you?” Scott blurted out. The man just looked at him and Scott was pretty sure he wasn’t even blinking or maybe he was blinking whenever Scott was blinking so he wouldn’t notice which was why he tried to blink in a different rhythm which made him look like he had an aneurysm so he just stopped.

“Okay… change of topic.”

The man moved as if he wanted to slam the car door shut but Scott took a step forward, one hand on the top of the door as he was bending down. “Okay, dude, serious talk now. About Stiles.” Derek stopped and leaned back into his seat with a heavy sigh. Scott could relate. Talking about Stiles was always exhausting.

“I’ve been told you are kind of going to be a thing? Now that you’re back? Because I heard you’ve been good friends with Stiles when you were young? Baseball friends? Which I haven’t heard of but, just because _I_ cracked after three days under the guilt and confessed to him that I had met other kids to play when I was living with my dad, doesn’t mean he has to tell me or something like that. No, really, it’s not like I’m hurt over that fact. We didn’t make any promises or had any kind of commitment or agreement, so it’s totally cool and I want you to know that I’m cool with you.”

“Euphemism?”

“What?” Scott asked incredulous. “Hey, was that an insult?”

The dude rolled his eyes. _“No.”_

Scott wanted to glare at him, but the guy looked haggard and maybe a little bit sad and annoyed and defeated and tired and right his uncle was missing, which must have brought him back to Beacon Hills to begin with so Scott decided he would just look that word up later. He felt a little bit guilty for keeping Derek up. “So, what I was trying to say,” he explained, clearing his throat. “This, between Stiles and you and me and maybe Allison, too. It’s kind of a really big deal for him, you realize that?”

Derek slightly shook his head, but Scott wasn’t entirely sure it was in reply to what he had said. More like an annoyed ‘Oh God I can’t believe this shit’. Scott really hoped it wasn’t that. “He… doesn’t let people in easily. What with his father and so...” Scott wasn’t sure how much Derek knew and he didn’t want to let things slip, Stiles wouldn’t be comfortable with the man knowing. “Maybe you have… noticed by now? About some… things?”

“Yeah,” the man eventually replied, but refrained from elaborating.

“Okay.” Scott looked at him carefully. “So… he keeps… forgetting stuff and when he remembers… some things, he kinda freaks out. And it’s always difficult to calm him down again and he’ll be strange for a couple of days but then he’ll get back together. It just takes… time. And sometimes there are… they are _not_ panic attacks, really, but he has these time lapses sometimes, where he forgets what happened or he can’t remember how he got to where he is. It’s…” Scott took a deep breath. “He’s got ADHD even before everything started and the Adderall sometimes makes stuff worse. Stuff like, you know, ever since what happened, they say it’s PT—”

“I know,” Derek suddenly interrupted him, looking… pained?

“So… he told you?”

The man turned his eyes away and shrugged. “He sometimes doesn’t make sense. And people talk.”

“So he didn’t.”

“No.”

“Do you know what to expect?”

Derek rolled his head back. “Delusions?”

Scott took a sharp breath in. “Yeah, I mean, no, not really. Not often besides, you know, the usual. It’s more… blackouts. Restlessness. Temper tantrums. Nothing bad usually. It has gotten worse. Which only happens when he’s under a lot of stress. But then it suddenly got better… with, you know, you?” The man cocked his head slightly in question. “He… has been sneaking out to meet you, right? So maybe it’s like… you calm him? Is that it? Well, at least I thought he was better. Until yesterday.” Scott frowned, worried his lip as he remembered Stiles in the showers of the locker room, looking all pale and panicked and like he was about to throw up. Scott was still trying to make sense of that because it wasn’t what he had expected. “Did something happen…? Did you two have a fight? Was that wound on the shoulder from _you?_ ”

Derek furrowed his brows. “No.”

“Do you know how he got it? It’s like right here,” he twisted his arm around to indicate the spot.

“No,” Derek answered again, slowly.

Scott blinked at him. Then sighed and got the pen Stiles had thrown at him in Lit class out of his pants, fumbling for a piece of paper. He only found a cough drop, so he unwrapped it, offering it to Derek who just stared at him like he was an alien. Shrugging, Scott plopped it into his own mouth and then started to scribble his number down as he proceeded to talk around the candy. “I really mean, what I’m telling you now, so you listen closely. I don’t care where you are, what time it is or what you have been doing, seriously, I won’t judge, but if he freaks out and it’s too much for you, I want you to call me.” He pushed the wrapping paper at the other man. “You’re the only one he spends much time with right now. I know he brushed me off because of you and I know it’s my fault, too. But if there’s a time you can’t calm him down, or whatever, if something happens, just call me okay? That’s really all I’m asking you.”

Derek took the paper, scrunching his nose at it. Probably because it had been kind of sticky from the other side.

“Can you do that?”

“Yes,” the man answered and Scott beamed at him for a second, before he narrowed his eyes. “And if you hurt him or mess with him, I’ll be there to kick your ass. And I don’t care how much muscle you have underneath that shirt and jacket, I’ll claw myself into your leg and tear your tendons or shit like that.”

Derek huffed, most likely in amusement because, yeah, Scott knew he was missing a threatening bone. And a threatening glare. And a threatening everything. He probably looked like a four year old threatening his parents with love withdrawal because he didn’t get his candy.

“You done?”

Scott eyed him for a second. “If I ever find out that you’re the reason behind his… odd behavior or even that injury, I’ll call my mom. And seriously, you don’t want to mess with my mom. Or the Sheriff department. So you don’t want to mess with Stiles, you got that?”

Derek sighed, nodded his head in annoyance.

“Not that you don’t know _that_ already, right?” Scott didn’t bug away as Derek leaned forward in an attempt to close the door, instead he leaned a few more inches in. “And just to get some things straight. You’re not in some drug gang, are you?”

“What.”

“Or a serial killer?” Derek’s face gave nothing away. “In a biker gang? The rebel without a cause kind? Because leather?”

The man blinked.

“A, uh, souteneur?”

“A souteneur?” Derek echoed toneless, then looked him up and down, like he was trying to figure out if Scott was serious. He was. Deadly so. He was so serious he had especially looked that word up in a dictionary to acknowledge that topic as delicately as possible. So yes, he was damn serious and he wanted an answer.

“Are you?”

“No,” the man growled.

“To all of them?”

“Yes.” A hand darted out to grab the handle on the door, but Scott still wouldn’t let go. Though he might have flinched a little.

“Great. I’ll let the Sheriff department know then. Because they were wondering,” he replied, then cleared his throat. “So, one last thing… uhm… your relationship with Stiles,” he stopped at the look of utter horror that crossed the dark haired man’s face for about a second before it was gone, hidden behind an angry scowl as if it had never been there. “Are you, uh friends? Or is it, I don’t know, complicated?”

“Complicated,” the man answered without missing a beat. Then _visibly_ cringed. “No. We are friends,” he suddenly amended. Scott just looked at him. There must have been disbelief written all over his face because Derek _snarled_ at him, then slapped his hand away from the door to slam it shut. Scott let him, stepping a few feet back as he watched Derek drive off.

Well, all things considered, that could have gone worse, Scott decided.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [halcyon1993](http://archiveofourown.org/users/halcyon1993/pseuds/halcyon1993) and [ToriTC198](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ToriTC198/pseuds/ToriTC198) for betaing this... thing. I don't even know what this is anymore...

The Camaro belonged to Derek’s brother.

When his parents told him he wouldn't get a car on his sixteenth birthday Eric had just shrugged it off as them playing with him. As the only human child he had always assumed he had some kind of leeway when it came to certain aspects of their lives. And getting a set of wheels was kind of top priority in his opinion because he either had to ride his bike or take the bus which would force him to walk through half of the preserve to get to the bus stop. His argument went along the lines of: “Me. No werewolf. No supernatural stamina. Need car.”

In retrospect, he should have known better.

Their mother had always lectured him that just because he was human, he wasn't better or worse but simply different. So, yes, he had to play outside with his siblings who may or may not chew on his arm in a fit of overzealous friskiness. And yes, he had to accompany them on the Full Moon run once a year up to the highest point of the preserve where they would make a campfire, howling among the werewolves in a jeeringly bad imitation. Eric had never complained about being forced to come along with them. Secretly they suspected he actually enjoyed torturing them with various kinds of piercing howls. He just wanted to exploit his human situation the best he could.

So in the end, when his sixteenth birthday rolled around, he didn’t get his car.

Eric wasn’t the only one who learned from that. No matter how much old money the family had, their parents wouldn't automatically serve them everything on a silver platter. It was their way of teaching the children the way of the world. And it was Eric’s bad luck that he was the oldest and therefore usually used as an example for the other Hale kids. Derek and Laura knew at that point that if they wanted a car, they would have to start saving. Though all three older siblings were convinced that Cora, as the youngest, would get a car for her sixteenth birthday.

Apparently, parental rigor stopped with the youngest child.

Eric moped around for a few days before he got himself a job, though his money kept dwindling mostly when there was a concert he wanted to go to or a new console or video game coming out and after a few months he just figured he really didn’t need a car. Or a motor bike, like the one Laura had bought for herself two years later. Eric was just fine with his mountain bike. The ride to work a good training for his volunteer fire department exercises. Or so he had said.

That changed the second he saw the Camaro years later.

Eric fell in love with the car the day he saw it at the used car seller across the street from the fire department. He begged his parents on his knees and told them he would pay them back every cent. His parents told him they wouldn’t buy him a used car for $8000. If he wanted it, he would just have to get the money together himself. Eric cracked his savings but was short three thousand bucks. So he started to work his ass of, begging the owner to keep the car for him. For three months. He’ll surely buy it. The man surprisingly agreed. But Eric had always been very good at convincing or manipulating people. Not that it had done him any good with his parents.

However, he couldn’t save enough. When he went back, asking for more time, the salesman shook his head and told him he couldn’t promise anything. Two weeks later his mother received a call from the shop owner. There had been someone who was interested and he couldn’t hold it back any longer, they had to buy it now or he would sell it to someone else.

His mother bought the Camaro a month before Eric’s twenty-second birthday.

When Eric finally had the money he went back to the shop. He was told the car had been sold. Derek had never seen his brother so angry, slamming every door in the house he came by, cursing and swearing under his breath and completely ignoring the fact that some relatives had a more sensitive hearing than humans. Eric had been in a foul mood for days. Cora pleaded with their mother to just give him the car a few days earlier because Eric was unbearable and beginning to scare her.

Her mother stayed resolute and said no.

It hadn’t been easy to keep secrets in a house full of werewolves. They were lucky Eric was human. Derek’s father almost faltered under the guilt and nearly had a mental break down and maybe cried a little in relief when two weeks later his oldest’s birthday finally dawned.

Eric was about to faint when he went outside for his usual morning lapses around the preserve and saw the car parked in front of the house. And then he woke every werewolf and human in the house with a siren, yelling at them how much he hated them. And how much he loved them. Back and forth between adoration and anger before he went back outside to squeal at the car for about an hour.

Eric had it for three days.

Derek clung to these memories as he watched the hunter walking up to the Camaro and crushing the window. It kept him from leaping over and lashing out. Guilt and anger and memories had always been his restraints. He knew they wanted him to let go, to give them a reason to put him down and prove him the wild animal they thought he was.

Derek wouldn’t give them the satisfaction, though.

At least he was smarter than that.

However, he had been right by not seeking the hunters out. Had known they would come to get him sooner or later, his presence no longer a secret because of his arrest, though most thankfully commonly ignored by the local population.

It had taken the hunters longer than he had anticipated. It was, ironically, probably because of the police on Derek’s heels and the Sheriff department’s pet project in his car. And they, incidentally, were another shackle that kept him from retaliating as well.

Figures the Hunters would finally approach him, when he was almost out of gas and needed to refuel if he didn’t want to leave his car somewhere in the middle of nowhere on his way to Middletown.

Derek just watched them drive off, hand clenching and unchlenching, a numbing blankness keeping his focus as they laughed and sneered. He wondered what they knew about Stiles and him. Believing Stiles was a werewolf just like Derek, were they going to try and intimidate him, too?

He put the hose back, rounded the car and carelessly brushed the shards on the seat away with his hands, shaking some remains from the mat before he climbed back in.

Derek already dreaded having to go and pick up Stiles, because for whatever reason the boy had decided that the Camaro was his baby and got excessively overprotective. Probably just to piss Derek off.

It worked wonders.

Before Stiles had insisted to come along to wherever Derek was going and before Derek had eventually given in, the werewolf had assumed he knew what he was getting into. Thought that he knew that spending time with Stiles was going to be exhausting. Excruciating. Mildly irritating at best.

However, the first two days of watching Stiles a month ago couldn’t have prepared him of what he had to endure. And _those_ had already resulted in an abstract form of a minor headache he shouldn’t even have been able to suffer from, because he was a _werewolf_.

At least now Derek had him under close watch, however it also subjected him to the boy’s inane chatter.

Derek wasn’t convinced the first counterbalanced the second.

He may not have thought things through when he had dragged the boy into his car and started something Stiles referred to as ‘stakeout’, but was basically just stalking. Which Stiles refused to admit. Because stalking was Derek’s thing. His words.

However when Derek had seen the children in front of the nurse’s house he had been about to check out in the early afternoon, he had sort of panicked. Stiles might have had a point in explaining to him that usually kids wouldn’t run around outside in the late evenings or in the middle of the night but Derek wasn’t willing to acknowledge Stiles being right.

It would only encourage the boy.

And an encouraged Stiles was even more of a blabbermouth than a scared one. Considering that the cautious version was bad enough, Derek didn’t really want to make acquaintance with the other.

There were already enough shifts in mood and feeble attempts at conversations, which Derek occasionally classified as interrogations and therefore wasn’t prone to engage in. Which obviously didn’t bother Stiles in the least. He just kept on talking, probing him with questions about everything and nothing, fighting over the radio station until Derek settled on the news channel and Stiles got bored and started talking again.

If he had known how exhausting it was to work with Stiles he would have never approached the boy to begin with. If he had known how much trouble Stiles was going to be, he would have just ignored him. Never mind the fact that he wouldn’t be where he was right now, potentially trailing the woman responsible for burning Laura’s body right in front of his nose.

When he pulled up at the their usual pick up place Stiles appeared out of the shadows, yanking the door open and sliding ungracefully into the passenger seat. “Drive-in theater,” Stiles directed him, before he had even buckled his seat belt. “I don’t have time for a stakeout, tonight. History paper due to tomorrow that needs lots of attention. Got some information for you though.”

Derek raised his eyebrows but pulled out.

They used to only meet for a couple of minutes for information sharing. Stiles simply updated him on his findings and Derek informed him they were as empty handed as before. Until one of them – Derek wasn’t really sure who anymore – had pointed out that jumping in and out of a car in under ten minutes made them look like they were involved in some illegal drug trafficking. Recent rumor had confirmed that assumption. Apparently Derek was providing to Stiles and Stiles was selling to Scott and other kids at school.

He really didn’t know how those rumors came to be.

It wasn’t like there were people around when they met.

Stiles seemed to be blissfully ignorant of the town's gossip. Therefore it must have been Derek who suggested they should do something that did not involve heavy pretend make out sessions. On the other hand Derek wouldn’t ever suggest something like that so it must have been Stiles, who, no.

Someone decided to do something and they both agreed on doing some pretend friend stuff that certainly did not look like they were exchanging drugs for a quickie or a blowjob or whatever.

Derek internally shuddered at that thought.

In hindsight, Derek assumed Stiles was using him to get out of the house and spend some time where he didn’t have to listen to Scott and his girlfriend sweet talk over the phone, or to Scott’s rambling about his girlfriend, or generally avoid being subjected to some kind of parental care from Melissa.

“Oh, they are showing The Godfather,” Stiles exclaimed rapturously as they arrived at the drive-in theater. “Sweet. Gotta hurry. Already playing the promos.”

There was no way the boy didn’t know that beforehand.

Derek looked at the entrance fee then held his hand out to the boy. Stiles just stared at it for a moment in confusion, before looking back up at Derek, who replied by raising his eyebrows in silent demand.

“You want _me_ to pay?” Stiles asked incredulous.

“You want to watch the movie.”

Stiles stared for another moment, then fumed, muttering under his breath about stupid cheap ass dates and how Derek should treat _him_ , seeing as he was older and how Derek should appreciate him spending his school nights bringing him closer to the culture he had apparently neglected. However, he still got his wallet out. “I knew I should have dragged you to Dirty Dancing instead.” Stiles continued his rant as he pushed a twenty into Derek’s hand. The man leaned out of the window, while the cashier just looked between them.

Derek tapped on the window frame, impatiently, and finally the young girl turned to the cash register, hurrying to hand him the change.

“I would have _gladly_ paid _a lot_ of money to watch  _you_  endure _that_ _._ I mean, I could make references like ‘I carried a watermelon’ and  _know_  that _you_ know where it’s from and laugh at you trying to act like you don’t!” Stiles stopped for a moment to take a breath.

Derek snorted at him, and parked the car straight in line to the steel truss structure with the screen, while Stiles fumbled with the radio for the right station. “You so pay for the snacks,” Stiles decided after he found it, then crossed his arms in front of his chest, daring Derek to protest.

“I don’t want snacks,” Derek stated flatly.

Stiles gaped at him, before he groaned in frustration. He slammed the door shut behind himself as he left the car and stormed over the parking lot to the concession stand, all the while mumbling curses under his breath. Derek caught the amused smirk before it could spread over his lips, changed it into a scowl instead.

This wasn’t for their amusement.

When Stiles returned he had a bucket of popcorn and two cokes, fighting with them when he opened the door and then settled back in, throwing Derek one of the cans without looking as he pushed the bucket between his legs.

“You don’t get any,” he declared rebelliously, squinting at Derek almost accusingly.

“So what’s the info?” Derek replied, leading back to the reason they were there. It certainly wasn’t to watch a movie.

“Right,” Stiles shuffled some more, then took a handful of popcorn when it threatened to spill over. “Shouldn’t you, you know, close the window? In case someone spies on us or something?”

Derek turned his head, ignoring some splinters stuck in the frame before he just shrugged. It wasn’t like there were so many people around anyway. The parking lot was almost empty.

“Okay then,” Stiles said slowly, glancing between him and the controls, before he leaned back in his seat. “They are traps,” he started without segue, puffing his chest out, almost oozing pride until he realized that the bucket started to wobble between his thighs and hurried to stabilize it.

Derek lifted his brows.

“The runes, I mean,” the brunette elaborated. “They are binding runes. They trap something in them, keep them anchored.”

“Trap what?”

Stiles shrugged, and was suddenly distracted by the flickers on the screen.

“Stiles.”

The boy glanced at him before his attention was drawn back to the front.

“Stiles.”

“Oh God, can’t you wait?”

“For trailers?”

“It’s part of the experience. Gosh, seriously, Derek. Shut up and watch the ads. It’s not like you—”

“Shut up?”

Stiles pressed his lips together. “Don’t kill me, please?” There wasn’t even fear behind those words.

Derek just rolled his eyes. “Traps for what?”

Stiles threw his hands in the air, then huffed in resignation. “Depends on the rune. Apparently werewolves, humans, everything regardless of… circumstances. Sometimes just one single person. It depends on the semantics.”

Derek should be surprised about how easily Stiles talked about runes and their semantics – Derek didn’t even know runes  _had_  semantics – but then again he still assumed Stiles was some hunter-druid-mix and therefore didn’t learn all that in a few days but in a few  _years_.

“So what?”

“I think it was meant for a single… thing.” The boy looked at the bucket in his lap, before he just pushed it at Derek before he bent forward to get a binder out of his backpack. He slapped it open and withdrew the clumsy attempt at replicating the rune Derek had seen at the trees around the stake. “Essentially, they are the same I have seen my mother use—”

“Where?”

Stiles hesitated. “In our, uh, greenhouse?”

“Greenhouse?”

Traps.

In a greenhouse.

Derek wasn’t even surprised anymore.

He had seen the wolfsbane and there were probably other plants worth protecting from burglars. Hunters? Not werewolves, or some other supernatural creatures. They wouldn’t have been able to get through the mountain ash barricade.

“That trap is strange though. Because it binds—Oh, wait! Watch that!” Stiles interrupted himself, and forcefully turned Derek’s face to the screen before he abruptly pulled his fingers back at Derek’s growl, holding them up in defense and surrender. However his eyes remaining fixed on the screen.

_“Stiles!”_

“Just a sec. This is the beginning, Derek. You just don’t miss the beginning of a movie, okay?”

Derek’s growl did absolutely nothing to deter the boy. Instead Stiles just moved his lips to the lines and the man rolled his eyes to the ceiling. After a moment he tried again. “It binds  _what?_ ”

Stiles replied with, “She stayed out late. I didn’t protest.”

Derek wanted to hit him.

_“Stiles!”_

“ _Derek_ ,” the boy whined but eventually gave up. “It binds life or animals… or maybe it feeds on stuff? Or something like that.” He answered in a rush to return to the scene that actually was only about two guys talking, so how fascinating could it be?

“Something like that?”

Stiles rolled his eyes, finally tearing them away from the screen. “Well, excuse  _you_. It’s not  _my_  messy handwriting right around there!” His index finger moved to the upper part of the symbol, shortly above the middle section of the triskelion where a few signs were scribbled in traditional Gaelic type –  _Duibhlinn_ , Stiles had called it.

“Excuse  _me_  for never getting a pen license for ancient Gaelic writing systems,” Derek snarled back.

“This—what?” Stiles’ head snapped around so fast Derek could hear the cracking in his spine. _“Pen license?_ What is a  _pen license?_ ”

Derek groaned internally. Now he was never getting Stiles off his back. “What could it be?” he tried to evade as he leaned in. The boy narrowed his eyes at him, a look on his face that Derek knew meant he had decided the fight wasn’t worth it right now but he sure as hell was coming back to it on a later date.

“It  _could_  mean ‘beathannan’, or maybe ‘beathaigh’ or hell, I don’t know, maybe ‘beathach’? As I said,  _useless handwriting_.”

Derek looked at the symbol, then back to Stiles.

He could have maybe written that down a lot less aggressively but he had been fighting his grudge at having been forced to hand over the complete rune to the boy to find out what it meant. Maybe he had done it on purpose. To make it as difficult for Stiles as he could. Which was counter productive and childish.

“You could go there on your own and take at look at them, if you want,” Derek offered, knowing full well that Stiles would rather stay as far away from the woods as he possibly could.

“Or  _you_  could go there again and make a _photo_.” The moment Stiles voiced his idea, Derek could see the dismay at his own words. At least Stiles had still some sense of what was uncalled for. “I mean… I don’t really think you need to go there at all. I figure there must be more runes. In the woods. Because they only work at a defined radius so,” he shrugged, gnawing on his lower lip, “they probably covered a certain area, where they thought it was needed.” He was silent, playing with the edge of the paper. “Who would leave such runes anyway? The hunters?”

“Probably not,” Derek replied, leaning back in his seat.

“So, axe woman then?”

Derek shrugged. “She’s the one who destroyed it. For a reason.”

Stiles furrowed his brow.

“The rune?” Derek pressed, before he lost the boy either to the movie or his own thoughts again.

“Yeah. So. It either traps life or a beast,” he threw Derek a long look, before he turned away again. “Or it’s a trap that feeds on everything within. Feeds on what, I don’t know. For what? Can’t make sense of that at all. And the two circles around with those things there—” ‘Those things there’ being an obscure amount of letters in Futhorc connecting the two circles around the triple spiral. “They are mostly just the basics of a simple trap. Like ‘walk in here and I gotcha’.”

“And this?” Derek asked, indicating the only thing he actually knew, the triple spiral in the middle of the rune. Not round like Derek’s tattoo, but slender, thin lines with circles at the end and a triangle in the middle filled with one single letter.

When he noticed his mistake, he whole body tensed.

Stiles however didn’t take notice.

“Never figured that one out,” Stiles admitted slowly instead. “I mean, I know what it  _stands_  for. Like the three realms: water, earth, sky. Or the Christianized version of the holy trinity or you know, a lot of different interpretations?”

“Never?”

Stiles stopped again, squirming in his seat. “I thought it was my mother’s signature.”

“Signature?” Derek let his eyes flicker to the boy who just shrugged.

“It’s in most runes around the house.”

Derek frowned. He hadn’t noticed. He had looked at them but the runes were mostly circles, with different lettering and so many different writing systems combined and details he probably wouldn’t have been able to notice the not-so-familiar version of the spiral. He had trouble picking it out on this more or less simple rune that had hardly any ornaments in there.

“Yep. Which is why I guessed it was my mother’s. Dunno what it is, though. I always assumed it’s our family.”

“Father, mother, child.”

Stiles shifted in his seat again, eyes flickering to the screen and Derek had to fight the urge to press him down to keep him still. “Something like that, yeah,” he replied, then glanced at Derek. “Do you know what it means?” He asked and Derek spotted a memo next to the symbol saying ‘Ask Derek’.

Stiles knew he knew, Derek thought, looking quizzically at the boy. Because Stiles had noticed his reaction, had even remembered it when they started to work together. Stiles should know he had at least _some_ knowledge.

“No,” Derek said, gauging the reaction.

Which was a simple shrug and without further ado, the boy returned to his own conjectures. “I thought it could be an enhancer. Or maybe it’s a loop hole. I really don’t know, but it doesn’t hinder the effect, though, so…”

“Loop holes?” Derek repeated, narrowing his eyes when the boy looked at him.

“Exceptions to the rules. Things like that. That trap rune might mean just trap whatever this stands for. Or let it be the only thing not getting trapped. Or feed on it? What do I know. I’ve got no idea.”

Stiles threw the folder to his feet and the hands in the air in frustration and then snatched the popcorn back and placed it on his lap, stuffing another handful in his mouth. The teenager was annoyed and irritated. Derek had learned that he didn’t like getting outsmarted. His brain was all he actually bragged about, what he was most confident about. And it obviously pissed him off that he was unable to figure out a puzzle that should probably be easy.

Derek was marginally reassured that he wasn’t the only one lost in this.

He leaned back and directed his gaze on the wide screen where they were showing some kind of wedding ceremony. His father used to love The Godfather movies. Derek himself had never shared much interest in TV to begin with. Which was why his dad had pushed the books at him.

He averted his eyes.

He didn’t need that right now. He needed to focus. He didn’t have time to bond with his dead father over a movie they had never watched together.

The spiral.

Derek doubted the triskele in that rune was devoted to Manannán, which was what it traditionally referred to. And considering all the Celtic symbols and writing systems he doubted it was anything Christianized. However, it  _was_  their family crest. Therefore it put an exception to a Hale. Possibly.

The rune on the tree—trees, they might mean ‘let everything go, but trap a Hale’. But Derek had not been trapped. Derek had left the area as fast as he had gotten there before it was destroyed. So maybe it meant, ‘trap everything, but a Hale’ which was absurd because Scott and Stiles had wandered around the area without getting trapped.

He shook his head.

“How do you find out?”

Stiles hummed in question.

“What kind of exception it is?”

“Semantics,” Stiles said again with a shrug.

Derek glared at him.

“Writing runes is a language Derek. You have the basics, but the rest is mostly up to you. You can make up your own rules if you want. I don’t know what puts the only or the don’t into a rune. It could be anything. Sometimes it’s just the intent it was painted on with.”

“That’s helpful,” Derek scoffed.

“Oh, I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful! ‘AP Runes and Interpretation’ isn’t exactly taught in high school!”

Derek rolled his eyes.

“It isn’t!” Stiles emphasized as if Derek even for a second had assumed it  _could_  be an actual course option.

The runes around the Stilinski house were protection wards. They probably said something along the lines of ‘Keep all supernatural out except a Hale’. Which was the reason he was granted access to the yard, to the house. So Stiles’ mother _had_ known his family, had maybe worked for them, been their… adviser?

He was just thinking about a way to ask about any kind of similarities between the runes around the house and the trap without mentioning anything about the family symbol, when Stiles interrupted him mid-formulation.

“Maybe it’s ‘beathfhórsa’,” Stiles suddenly said, eyes wide. “Someone’s life force? Someone’s, uh… soul? Maybe it feeds on that? I mean, what if it only traps a dying soul? Oh!  _Oh!_ ” He stuttered in his ramble and Derek watched him curiously, about to ask what the hell ‘oh’ meant but there was already a sudden verbal shit storm spilling out of Stiles’ mouth. An unstoppable force the second it was set in motion and Stiles’ loud brainstorming filled the car. He was shooting off thesis after thesis, asking rhetorical questions. Stiles, as Derek had learned, needed to hear himself talk to come up with ideas. The second he voiced his own thoughts pieces started to click together in his head even before Derek had registered half of the barrage.

Derek had learned to just keep quiet and avoid flailing limbs. He had slowly adapted to Stiles’ quirks over the week. Not so much to his mouth that was sometimes running off a mile a second when he wanted to point out something fascinating and somehow always strayed to a completely unrelated topic until he swerved back in as if he hadn’t taken a detour to get back to the point.

Then there were times when he was oddly quiet in thought, chewing on something – his fingers, pens, whatever he would hold in his hands at that time. Once it had been the sleeve of Derek’s jacket and Derek had only noticed as the sound of screechy leather reached his ears and he turned his attention from the apartment building he had watched to Stiles. The boy had let out a pained yelp when his face was squashed into the window.

Stiles had a very displaced oral fixation.

Which explained all that licking and chewing and gnawing and whatever things he was doing with his mouth while talking.

When he wasn’t eating Derek’s jacket, however, Stiles’ hands were playing with something – his jeans chain, a ballpoint pen, lose threads of Derek’s leather jacket – again – the gear stick, the glove box, book marks when doing homework, his safety belt.

Stiles was an unbelievably tactile person and that… didn’t sit well with Derek. Because he was leaving his scent everywhere. For a second Derek thought it was intentional, that he was claiming territory, the Camaro as his – and assuming how he kept on talking about the car it wouldn’t surprise Derek if he did think that – but as soon as the boy noticed what his hands were doing he would frown and stop.

Derek wasn’t sure if Stiles knew what he was doing.

But he wasn’t going to ask.

He wasn’t even that instinct ridden when it came to things like that. Back when his family was all over each other and Derek was somewhere in the middle, it might have been different. It wasn’t like that anymore, hadn’t been like that at all in a long time. Laura and him had hardly shared physical contact. Derek wasn’t even sure how to initiate non-violent behavior anymore.

The closest he came to body contact with other people had been during his time of illegal amateur cage fighting which was great for his pent-up aggression and a pretty sufficient stress reliever, but did little in the non-violent interaction department. If at all, it might have shifted his awareness on how to deal with common people even more. He had already been rather rambunctious in his teenage years, always pushed a shoulder a little too much, clapped a back a little too hard, nothing that could be declared as extraordinary but still elicited a small complaint every now and then.

He had become better in reeling his strength back in, which might have had to do with the fact that he avoided touching in general now. Which didn’t mean that other people stopped short from touching  _him_  in any way. With Stiles, he was currently in the process of re-learning social boundaries. Things like bashing someones head against a hard surface weren’t exactly conventionally accepted conversational finishing moves unless you wanted your sparring partner to stop his barking and get to the fighting.

Stiles usually complained, loudly, vocally, how much it hurt, but Derek hadn’t really taken him serious until he thought Stiles had gotten a concussion after a particularly nasty blow to the back of his head. Which he had not. Stiles had just been a little shit, probably to drive the point home. In Derek’s defense, though, he could have dealt with the spinach lasagna. Not with the post-it stuck on it reading ‘For Pedo-Der’. Seriously, he had developed some alarming issues concerning that topic thanks to hyper vigilant police men and -women.

Nevertheless, Stiles’ little charade had worked. Now, Derek kept his hands to himself most of the time. Or at least refrained from slamming Stiles’ head into something. There were less vital body parts so to speak. And twisting fingers and wrists was as good as any other means to an end.

Yet, this sneaking awareness was probably what kept him from breaking Stiles’ hand the second he realized where his nimble fingers went. When they pushed down on the window control and the driver’s window only let out a desperate rotation sound but didn’t wind up, all Derek could do was hide an annoyed groan.

“What happened to your window?” Stiles cried out in indignation. Derek hadn’t even realized Stiles had finished his rant. However the fact that the brunette wasn’t trying to glare him into the ground for not listening proved that the boy hadn’t gotten far in his own brainstorming and was obviously looking for a distraction. Which he had found. In Derek’s window.

“Oh my God, what did you do to your  _baby?_  This is like, total betrayal.  _Domestic violence!_  I hope she asks for a divorce. You are totally going to divorce him, aren’t you, girl?” Stiles asked the dashboard, petting it soothingly and cooing sweet nothings of how he would treat her better. Derek was sure Stiles only did it because he knew it annoyed the hell out of him.

Therefore Derek ignored him.

Stiles just laughed and pushed the bucket with popcorn at him, raising his eyebrows in an amused silent invitation.

“I don’t get any,” he said.

Stiles huffed. “It’s not like I actually planned to finish this alone, you know.”

Derek had figured as much. He shook his head, hesitated for a long time which Stiles surprisingly did not use to berate him, and then eventually grabbed some popcorn and tried to act like he didn’t. Stiles didn’t comment on it, instead turned his attention back to the screen.

“Wait for it,” the teenager suddenly said after a few minutes, smirking at him. “You’re about to hear one of the most famous quotes in film history. I hope you’re prepared.”

Derek lifted his eyebrow.

Stiles leaned forward in anticipation, lips slightly open, when on-screen an older man clapped a younger one on the shoulder. And then a wide grin spread over Stiles lips, before he turned to Derek again, face suddenly serious as he probably tried to imitate one of the actors. “I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse.” The impersonation shattered the second Stiles started to laugh.

Derek rolled his eyes at him.

He really wasn’t sure why he put up with the boy. It most certainly was not the ‘delightful companionship’ he had claimed to be. However Stiles, as promised, had dealt with the deputies. Derek didn’t know how and when he had asked Stiles had just shrugged and mumbled something about his dad. Which was not a topic Derek was willing to touch with a ten foot pole. Like ever. And not just because Stiles had been giving off really bad vibes at that time.

Still, they were working surprisingly… well… together.

Apart from when they were lying to each other because of heavy trust issues on both sides. Neither of them was willing to budge on that front. It didn’t actually make things easier, though there were times when Stiles didn’t seem as guarded, instead shared as much as he could.

The truth was, they both weren’t trusting each other. They both knew they _needed_ some trust. Though it would probably never happen. Both were resigned to that fact.

It was a simple partnership of convenience.

But thanks to Stiles it had stopped feeling like that. And it annoyed Derek more than he would like to amit. There were times when he had to forcefully remind himself that this all was about Laura.

Or… more about Peter.

Laura was what had hurt him the most, what had been closer to the heart, because they were siblings, because he loved her. But she had been strong, had been healthy.

It was Peter’s death that reached deeper, further, knotting his insides, fanning his anger in a way he couldn’t explain. It was seeing Peter’s defiled body, hands and fingers broken and claws torn out, thick black veins under his skin. It was the thought how Peter probably hadn’t realized what had been going on, how he had been brought into the woods to get brutally tortured and murdered. Or worse, that he hadn’t been completely unconscious. That he had indeed been aware of everything, trapped in his own body,  _knowing_  what was about to happen. Internally screaming for help or begging for salvation to get out, to have it all over with. How he had to endure without any chance to defend himself.

Thoughts like those were what made the blood rush in his ears, made his heart hammer in his chest, made the anger burn inside him.

Yes, he wanted revenge for himself, wanted the woman dead for mocking him by burning Laura on a stake. Wanted to find the people responsible for killing her in the first place. Wanted to find the people responsible for killing Peter.

Because it was something he had to do.

Because he needed a closure, at least one thing he did right in his life even if it was only petty revenge.

He didn’t voice any of his thoughts, didn’t say anything out loud, yet Stiles suddenly scooted closer, surprising Derek as his hand darted out, hesitating before putting its palm on Derek’s biceps and Derek just looked at him in bewilderment. Stiles was trailing his eyes over Derek’s face in deep concentration. He wasn’t sure what kind of face he was making. He thought it must have been closed off, unreadable, the usual. But whatever Stiles was seeing, or not seeing, was enough for him to back away again, his hand instead reaching down to Derek’s, where he had crunched the popcorn in a tight grip. Which was probably what had caught Stiles’ attention to begin with.

After he inspected the tightly closed hand like he had been expecting withdrawn claws, Stiles returned to the movie and Derek kept his complaints to himself. About how he didn’t have time to sit and watch a movie with Stiles while the people that had killed his uncle and sister were running free.

Instead he fixed his own eyes on the screen, thinking about the day his dad had given him the books, worn and well read, because he had read them at least a hundred times, and so had Eric, and Derek had just put them in the shelves above his bed, promising he would read them sooner or later.

Later had turned into never.

“Derek, one question. Answer honestly,” Stiles suddenly interrupted his thoughts. The man noticed belatedly that the screen was void of flimsy pictures and for a second assumed he had day-dreamed through the whole movie, when he realized that other people were leaving their cars, heading to the concession stand or the toilets.

A break then.

The boy had turned his whole body to face him, one knee on the seat, elbow resting against the back rest, waiting impatiently for a reaction.

“What?”

Stiles played with his fingers, before he took a steadying breath and pressed his lips together in determination. “I know you don’t like to talk about her, but what was Laura doing here? You know, I keep wondering how everything fits together. It’s not like you came here before, right? So why now?”

Derek tensed, his hand reflexively wandering to the picture in his jacket. The brunette followed his movement with curious eyes, but refrained from asking more questions.

“She was lured here,” he answered eventually, pushing his hand into the pocket before he got the crumpled picture he had retrieved from the dumpsters out and shoved it at Stiles. The dead animal with the spiral on its stomach was enough to persuade him that everything was part of plan he wouldn’t be able to understand.

The brunette eyed the photo for a moment, before he looked back to Derek. “What’s it mean?”

“It means ‘vendetta’.”

“You didn’t think this was important?”

Derek shrugged. “Whoever had lured her here, is the one who killed her. There’s nothing else to gain from.”

“Derek,” Stiles sighed in exasperation, “do you believe a mountain lion killed that deer?”

“No.”

“You think it was a werewolf?”

Derek hesitated. “If it was, he’s no longer here. Right now, I’m the only werewolf in Beacon Hills and immediate vicinity.”

“And you know that how?”

Derek turned, quirking his brows. “I’m the Alpha.”

Stiles brows twitched. “Do you think the nurse is a werewolf, who killed the deer?”

“I’d have to meet her to say for sure.”

The brunette boy kept silent for a moment. “You could have told me earlier. It might have come in handy.”

“You never asked.”

“I just assumed she was visiting the family grave or your uncle or whatever. God, how would I know something like _that?_ ”

Stiles had the picture in a tight grip, hand almost shaking. Derek lifted his eyebrow questioningly, but the boy just turned around and threw himself against the backrest, eyebrows lowered in concentration. When he started to absentmindedly gnaw on his lower lip, Derek knew the boy would ignore him for the next half hour, letting whatever thoughts run through his head.

Derek watched him for another moment, before he locked his eyes back on the white screen.

The thing was, Derek wouldn’t put it past a hunter to stage a werewolf attack to lave the spiral. Beacon Hills was, even if they had left it, still Hale territory and the second Laura had gotten wind of those attacks she must have decided to check it out.

What Derek couldn’t understand was _why_ they would lure them back. Why they would have a vendetta. Whether the hunters from the fire had come back to finish what they had started years ago.

And if so, why now.

The picture wasn’t helping, it was just adding to the pile of questions which was why he had ignored it. As soon as they had _someone_ , the nurse for example, he could start asking her about the picture. So long, it was just a shaky piece of evidence he decided to overlook to keep himself from falling deeper into what seemed like a freaky conspiracy against his sister and him.

During the last hour of the movie Stiles chewed on his popcorn, slurped his coke but otherwise remained uncharacteristically silent. There were times when his face grimaced or spasmed, like he had some form of revelation.

Derek knew he was connecting dots.

He just didn’t know related to what.

After he dropped Stiles off, the boy continued to hover at the open door before he leaned back in. “You should get that repaired,” Stiles nodded at the window without any mirth, innuendo or glee. Which was unusual. “Try not to get in trouble, though,” he continued, and then smirked. “And don’t forget the cannoli.”

Derek just rolled his eyes, but he could hear Stiles’ chuckle even after he had closed the door, stumbling over his own feet when he marched back home.

* * *

Derek didn’t get in trouble.

Which was awesome.

And the word ‘awesome’ shouldn’t slip into his vocabulary unsolicited. So it was… welcomed.

He drove his car to the mechanic, pretending he wasn’t grudgingly following Stiles’ order. Nope. He was just doing what Eric would want him to do. Which actually, _was_ the reason. But he could still hear Stiles’ voice in his head, could imagine the boy’s gleeful smirk when he would see the repaired door.

He stayed out of anyone’s way and practically holed up in his old home to avoid ever running into anyone again. It was his new coping mechanism after getting stopped several times in the grocery store by some deputies, looking him up and down, scrutinizing him, before putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing it lightly in… comfort. Or threat? Derek wasn’t sure. Being a target of police officers wasn’t really what Derek had gone for when talking to Stiles, but well, apparently to the law enforcers Stiles and him were friends now. Derek felt like a caretaker for a wild animal. A wild animal he was in the process of  _taming_ , if what Scott had told him was true. His heartbeat had said it was the truth but Derek didn’t give a fuck about heartbeats at the time being.

He was probably lucky that the people who did recognize him from before the fire on his few trips into town kept their distance and not even so much as glanced his way. Days could have gone by quietly if it hadn’t been for Scott. Who he had bumped into already two times after their talk. Once when he had been out to buy new combat boots. The second time when he had been buying shirts. Because if anything, Stiles was right and he couldn’t keep running around in bloody clothes. He had expected Scott to ignore him, but instead the boy had made a beeline for him like he had sought Derek out to begin with.

Derek slowly started to contemplate a change of cars. Something less eye catching. Maybe a Toyota.

But Scott not only didn’t ignore him. No, Scott started to talk to him. Small talk that turned out to be unsubtle prodding as to how he was, if he had anything planned that day, like whether he wanted to go out with someone – wink wink nudge nudge. The girl behind him had snorted at his attempts of subtlety.

Derek had noticed the scent on her the moment she had entered the shop.

The daughter of Chris Argent.

Derek had glowered at her until she squirmed under his gaze and excused herself from the conversation. In reply, Scott had bumped a fist against Derek’s shoulder, asking him what the hell was wrong with him.

Derek had just ignored them and then started to work harder at avoiding… everyone. Which led him to the 7-11 at four in the morning. A time where usually no normal human being should be up. Apart from him and a woman who was apparently coming from a night shift, dressed in a blue nurse outfit under her coat, heavy long dark locks flowing over her shoulder. She watched him suspiciously as he entered and when he caught her scent he cursed his luck.

Scott McCall’s mother.

Derek made a beeline to one of the shelves, right across the magazines, avoiding eye contact. He was proud he didn’t turn on his heels to run away. He regretted it the moment he realized he wouldn’t get off that easy.

“Derek Hale?”

He stiffened his shoulders, all instincts telling him to get the hell out of the store. Instead he turned around. She wasn’t glaring daggers at him, but her stance was still firm, her chin held high and set as if preparing for a fight, her gaze stern. She looked like… a mother.

“I’m Scott McCall’s mother—”

“I’m not sleeping with Stiles,” Derek interrupted her. He wanted this done and over with as fast and possible and, right, ‘I’m not sleeping with a minor’ probably wasn’t the best way to start this conversation. It was all he could do not to wince at his own words.

“That is… good? Thanks for… letting me know?” she said very slowly. Derek was confused at the use of question marks. This wasn’t going as he had expected. Not that he had any expectations because as far as he coul estimate his life, even his worst expectations were somehow always trampled on.

He might have expected her to try to glare him into the ground, yell at him to leave his hands off her boy, and, considering how protective the whole town was about Stiles, it wasn’t even so far off the mark. In his opinion.

However she was calm, slightly confused and mostly tired.

He assumed the tiredness helped his case.

“This is not what I wanted to talk about. Of course you are not sleeping with Stiles. I’m not stupid.” Derek was amazed at the possible notion that he was currently dealing with the first sensible adult ever since he had taken step into town. “However, the deputies keep getting anonymous calls from ‘concerned citizens’, one woman in particular which makes me almost think she is following  _you_  around, who claims to keep spotting you in the middle of the night together in ‘compromising situations’.” She didn’t actually make them, but Derek could still see the air quotation marks. Those calls would explain the rumors floating around about them. “Therefore the deputies keep calling me, asking what they are supposed to do, so here is the deal.”

Derek swallowed. This either meant dinner at the McCall’s every Saturday or never meeting Stiles again and seriously, the latter he could gladly live with, the first? Not so much.

“I’m pretty sure I can’t force Stiles to stay away from you—” Derek opened his mouth to reply but she just wiggled her index finger at him in an universally known gesture to keep his mouth shut. So he did. She was a mother. Something was pushing his buttons there. “Especially if he is convinced he hasn’t done anything wrong. I know Stiles. And I do believe you both are friends who just got mixed up in small town gossip. Which admittedly is your own fault. At least Stiles’,” she amended at Derek’s put off look. “So if you could stop sneaking around—” He opened his mouth again but she just raised her eyebrows, so he closed it with a huff, “—like you are a bad imitation of Romeo and Juliet and make your meetings more public, maybe go to the movies on a Saturday afternoon with the eyes of three thousand ‘concerned citizens’,” she spat the words out like they offended her, “on you instead of the drive-in theater at ten pm on a school night I think everyone in this town would be less nervous about this utterly ridiculous situation. Or you could try this new concept. I call it ‘visit him at our house’. You might have to get used to doing things the normal way, and trust me, I know how difficult it is considering Stiles is involved. But everything is better than Stiles jumping into your car for half an hour doing whatever it is you are doing – I don’t want to know,” she added. “Believe me, you would really make all our lives a lot easier that way.”

Derek blinked.

He was confused.

And maybe distraught.

He had problems trying to grasp the situation, because her words just sounded like she was giving Derek permission to pretend-befriend a minor everyone thought he had some jail bait situation going on with.

Melissa watched him, then sighed. “I’ve tried talking to Stiles about this but he just blanched at me. And I’m fairly certain he jumped out of the window the second I left the house for work. He’s not as subtle as he thinks he is.” There was wry but fond amusement in her voice. “But you are the adult in this relationship so I hope you can talk some sense into him.”

Derek nodded. Because it felt like if he did anything else, say, run away, she would actively hunt him down.

She nodded in reply, then gave him a tired smile before she placed a hand on his shoulder, a warmth underlying the strictness in her eyes. It was a look Derek had become unfamiliar with. Derek had to fight the urge down to yank his shoulder out of her reach. “I’m glad he has other friends than just Scott. And Scott tells me you take good care of him. So thank you. And thanks for sticking around even after he got you arrested. I really don’t know what had gotten into him. Neither does he, I think.”

Derek should have never gotten involved with Stiles.

She gave him another squeeze, before she turned away and stepped up to the cashier. Derek turned around to stare at the magazine section, grabbing whatever was in front of him and stared at it until he was sure the woman was gone.

“Hey, if you read it, you buy it, buddy” the store assistant told him. Derek pushed the magazine away and stormed off to the fast food section.

He really didn’t know how to deal with this anymore.

The next day he picked up the car.

He didn’t notice anything when he walked over the pebbly and sandy yard, passing cars in different stages of repairs, passing his own Camaro between a dark blue BMW and a purple Clio, new window neatly seated in the door, partially open.

He didn’t notice when he walked by to the container used as the bureau, the guy not even looking at him when he opened the door, simply waving him inside.

“Windows done, cleaned the interior door panel, picked out last remaining splinters, cleaned the inside, too,” he started matter-of-fact. Derek could deal with matter-of-fact, straight to the point without any needless pleasantries to keep a client happy. “It’s a good car, good shape, purrs like a cat,” the man continued, then glanced up for a second in the direction of the key rack to his side, getting Derek’s car keys and flinging them at him. “Have a nice ride.”

Derek blinked, then motioned to get his wallet out.

“Your girlfriend already paid,” the man interrupted him. Derek aborted his movement with a tight jerk, frowning. “She came by yesterday evening. Left a note in your car.”

Derek nodded curtly before he turned on his heels and stormed off to his car. As soon as he stood right in front of it, keys in the keyhole to open the door he caught her faint scent. There was a low growl before he yanked the door open, reaching for the piece of paper. Her hand-writing was as atrocious as her deeds and Derek was tempted to just throw it away, but he let his eyes wander over the letters.

**You’ll find me in Weaverville.**

Derek frowned at the message, before crumpling the note in his hand.

* * *

Her name was Jennifer Hall.

Derek had almost gone berserk the second they turned into her street, her scent faint but still flooding his nostrils. He could hear his own guttural growls and snarling over the rushing of blood in his ears. And somewhere in between there was a tiny whimper that froze his body to the core. Stiles was freaking out next to him and Derek remembered that he wasn’t alone in the car.

Stiles heartbeat hammered in his chest as he leapt from the front seats into the back, mumbling and panicking, while Derek’s eyes started to flash bright red again.

He had to calm down, had to get himself under control.

He couldn’t lose his calm again around the teenage boy.

Before he knew what he was doing he got his claws out, digging them deep into his leg, the car swerving to the right and off the street. It was dark, almost no traffic. Which was most likely the only reason they weren’t in an accident by now. Stiles calmed down significantly in accordance with Derek’s re-transforming body, Derek’s growls changing into soft pained groans.

After a moment, slowly, warily, Stiles climbed back to the front seat again. Derek could feel sharp eyes on him, watching him with distrust and even before he could hear the intake of breath he knew what was about to come. “Dude, this so is not cool!” Stiles complained. “Whatever you were doing,  _not cool_. I mean, I trust you with this body here,” his hands flailed, wandering all over his torso, “you can’t just go all big bad wolf on me, okay? I mean, there is a  _reason_  I never bring this, you,” his hands now waving at him, “ _this_  up. It fucking scares me, okay? I try to forget about it. So I don’t freak out every second spent here with you.”

Derek ignored him, instead took the claws out of his thigh, wounds closing almost instantly. Stiles huffed and threw his body against the back rest, arms crossed in front of his chest. “I’m assuming we are on the right track then?”

Derek steadied his hands on the steering wheel. “Yes.”

“Impressive. We are not even that close and you can scent her out? What was the point of us staying at the other houses for hours then?”

“I shouldn’t,” Derek growled.

“What do you mean?”

“It means I shouldn’t.”

Derek had remarkable senses, more so as an Alpha than as an Beta. However he was an Alpha without a pack, it wasn’t like they were developed to full potential. He still shouldn’t be able to track her down in a busy street buzzing with life during the day. Where scents mingled and got overthrown an basically erased.

Derek wrinkled his nose.

She could have only marked her neighborhood more clearly if she had actually pissed at every tree.

Stiles watched him from the corner of his eye, chewing his lips as if he could track Derek’s thoughts that way. “She marked her territory,” was all he said in way of explaining and now Stiles was scrunching his nose the exact same way he had.

“You mean she peed on the walls and stuff?”

Derek shrugged, leaving Stiles to his own imagination because she certainly did not do that. She probably hid clothes, maybe she had done it to distract him from her, making him search the whole damn street to make her out.

If so, it had been in vain.

As soon as his hands had stopped trembling he pulled the car back onto the street and closed in on the apartment block. He didn’t need Stiles’ guidance, he knew exactly where he had to stop. Where his eyes had to travel to pick up the cold trail.

Jennifer Hall.

She was one of Peter Hale’s long term private nurses, one of four, according to Stiles ramblings as they had driven up to Kelseylake. And she was the only one with any a connection to Weaverville.

“She’s listed as on break for a month,” Stiles said, smacking his lips together. “Family affairs apparently.”

“Why wasn’t she the first on our list?” Derek growled. She should have been somewhere at the top of Stiles’ list.  _Stiles’_. Because the boy had refused to give him all the details.

Stiles just shrugged noncommittally. “Because she wasn’t in town. She had been among the police’s first suspects after Peter’s disappearance. But at the time when everything went downhill here in Beacon Hills she had been refilling her gas tank at a fuel station somewhere halfway across the country. Which was why I pushed her to the back.”

Derek should probably try to get to the bottom of this, but all he cared about was that she was the one in the preserve, no matter what her credit card info gave away. For all he knew, Stiles wouldn’t have ever brought her up, completely disregarded her if it hadn’t been for Derek showing up and telling him to research every nurse for connections to a place called Weaverville. At that point they still hadn’t been sure if the person in the woods had been an actual nurse or just some impostor.

She had given herself up.

Derek wanted to know why.

“I guess she’s smart,” Stiles said, almost awed, then started to furiously type on his laptop. Derek watched his fingers hitting the keyboard, before he turned towards the row of darkened windows. After a pause, he opened his door but before he could climb out Stiles’ hand was fisted in his jacket.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he hissed. Derek looked at his hand, then at Stiles, back to the hand when the boy still wouldn’t let him go. “You know what got you into this mess? You diving head first into trouble. Now close that door and wait for me to finish my research.”

Derek seriously contemplated just dragging the boy out through the driver’s side. Instead he obeyed. Stiles nodded in satisfaction, waiting until the door was closed, before he continued to scroll through website after website.

“You are going to buy me two pounds of curly fries or I’ll sucker punch you in the face,” Stiles opened his information onslaught, picking up on Derek’s silence. “Which, I don’t know, probably takes the sucker out of the punch, but you get the gist.”

Derek was not amused.

“Jennifer Hall,” the boy continued unimpressed, “finally a name, right? I mean, we knew the name, but not that it was her, so. A surprisingly simple one. You’d have thought she would be called Draconia. Draconia Wolfkiller. Now that would have helped the search.” Derek eyed him. He knew the boy was just playing off his own nervousness, knew he was scared by the almost transformation, but seriously, jokes? Now? “But no, it’s normal. Like  _Jennifer_. Fuck, I’m like marked for every Jennifer I’m ever going to meet.”

“Marked?” he repeated dryly.

“Urgh, you know what I mean. Stigmatized? Branded? God, don’t look at me like that. But still, burned  _for life._  By Jennifers. No matter how pretty or kind I’ll probably always suspect them of trying to axe me in my sleep. I will so stay away from them for the rest of my life. You too, Derek. Heed my warning, stay clear from all the Jennifer’s all over the world. All but Jennifer Aniston. Goddess that she is.”

Derek rolled his eyes, the nervous energy leaving his own body as he listened to Stiles’ ramble, instead settling on annoyed calm.

The nurse wasn’t home. And if Derek was right she hadn’t been for a while. Her scent was stalled, but strong enough to make him have to suppress growls every few minutes to curb his impatience as they watched the dark apartment. Stiles glared at him contemptuously every few seconds as if he knew. Derek continued to stare at her empty dark windows while Stiles googled her family.

Derek didn’t know how that was supposed to help.

“Facebook, best invention ever,” Stiles eventually offered after a few quiet minutes. “Her family’s largely gone. Has a sister somewhere in Maine. Complete opposite of her. Has a husband. Three children. Two dogs and… two cats and… a snake and—” the boy frowned, before rolling his eyes, “a bunch of other animals. Picked up from the street. Though I really don’t understand how anyone can pick up a Teacup pig from the streets. Seriously. Big family on her husband’s side as well. Socially invested, like in projects of feeding the poor, funding money for a neighbors’ heart operation, taking kids in until they were sent off to foster parents. Man, they like, sound like the perfect couple in the perfect neighborhood with perfect children and a perfect reputation. It’s disgusting.”

Derek tried not to nod in agreement.

“Probably don’t have a good relationship. The sisters I mean. Not much contact. Polite messages on holidays and their birthdays but nothing else.” There was a sudden evil cackling from Stiles’. Derek chose to ignore it. Knowing Stiles he just found some comment on fidelity or whatever. The werewolf had soon realized that the teenager had too much fun digging up dirty secrets. “Gotta love this. Like, in 2008 she, that is our Axe Bitch, tried to snatch her sister’s boyfriend. Name’s Jeanny by the way. Her sister’s I mean. Jennifer and Jeanny. Can you get any more unimaginative?”

Derek refrained from commenting on name giving.

They spent another few hours watching her apartment, with Stiles digging further and further through the internet, texting Scott from time to time.

There was a strange relief flooding through Derek’s veins though, putting a name to a person he hadn’t been sure even existed outside of Stiles’ mind. Knowing that as soon as she would come back home this would be over, that he would find his peace or at least close. He would slink back home, take in the emptiness that Laura had left in their apartment and then—he had no idea what would happen then. He had nothing to come back to anyway.

He eyed the gray apartment block.

But for all he knew that woman would never come back. She was too clever for that, seeing as she had found a way to dig out Laura, dragging her miles through the woods without him noticing anything.

Derek had kept away from the grounds she had burned Laura’s corpse on. Instincts, because his mother used to tell them it wasn’t their territory, that they had to stay away unless they wanted to wake up jinxed. It had sounded like fun until Laura had come back one day, sneaking out into the forbidden territory his parents used to prowl the borders, and sprouted a series of burn marks, slim long gnashes like someone had been giving her a whipping with a burning whip. Their mother had been livid, Derek thought there might have had been some biting involved as punishment.

He wondered if this Jennifer knew. That they would never go there so she could prepare the stake, the runes and only had to drag Laura there in the few hours she had when Derek had been watching Stiles’ house.

He wondered why whatever was living there had let him through, had let _her_ through. Whether the things that used to live there were gone or simply hiding, staying out of the dispute because it had nothing to do with them.

He wondered why she was going out of her way to torture him, to put the blame on herself even though nothing had connected her to Peter’s and Laura’s death in the first place. Wondered whether she was forced to do it by the hunters, wondered if she was victim or culprit.

“And then there’s the cabin,” Stiles interrupted his thoughts and Derek suppressed his surprise at hearing his voice. The boy was gnawing his cheek, looking at him expectantly now. “As she had said. Weaverville. Hundred miles from here. So yeah, maybe she’s there. Most likely it’s a trap? She has rented a few storage containers, too, though. You could check them out.”

Derek lifted his eyebrow at the word ‘you’.

Stiles never said it in so many words – which was saying something – but Derek had realized some time ago that what the boy  _didn’t_  say was what he had to pay attention to. Stiles didn’t trust Derek. Not with something like this. He wouldn’t let him go after her alone. Because he was assuming Derek would kill her without asking questions. Indeed, he was tempted to do that. And he knew that Stiles knew.

“Found out her car plate, too,” Stiles continued like he wasn’t aware of Derek’s silent question. “I could report her car as stolen and track it in the police records. They will have to call in when they find the car even if the owner is driving it.”

Derek eyed the boy. “I kept tracking her credit card but nothing else came up so far,” Stiles continued. “I tried her GPS as well. You know, mobile phone? Didn’t work either. She’s got a good head I’ll give her that.” Before he could even give an answer, Stiles jumped into a long winded explanation about internet security and tracking. Derek listened halfheartedly. “It’s like they  _want_  people to crack that,” Stiles growled out in indignation just a few minutes later and then leapt into another explanation about how horrible the police technology was and that they should really start updating their software, groaning to himself before talking about how anyone could hack their firewalls.

Derek wasn’t sure whether that was true. He didn’t know where Stiles had picked his skills up. And he didn’t know about Stiles’ past, and God forbid if he was going to ask and get involved, because he really didn’t care. Stiles  _was_  fascinating, intriguing even on a completely crazy level. Didn’t mean he wanted to find out more about the boy than he already had. Be it by talking to deputies or the McCalls.

He wished he could just throw Stiles out of the car and do this alone, stay in contact via mobile phone only. It was actually a wonder Stiles was still in a car with him after his semi outburst. The boy should have been scared and run and never come back. Sure enough, it wasn’t his first shift in front of him, but he still shouldn’t be that… accepting.

“There’s something else I can try,” Stiles suddenly started, typing on his laptop but never looking up. “I can check hotels and motels, maybe even public cameras. However that would take a while and I have to be, you know, very careful?”

Derek stopped in his thoughts, tilting his head.

“Yeah, it means exactly that,” Stiles now said, his eyes narrowed at Derek. “I’ll trust you not to kill her, if you find her.”

Derek arched his eyebrows. Stiles rolled his eyes and threw his hands in the air, then looked back at the apartment. Their non-verbal communication had come a long way. Well, Derek’s non-verbal communication.

“I hate talking to your caterpillars,” Stiles scoffed, but there was more amusement behind those words than any edge. “So, Derek,” Stiles started again after a moment, his voice soft and sharp at the same time. “You know she won’t come back here. And I know you know I just want to tell you, okay? Because knowing and accepting are two different things.”

Derek let his eyes slide back to the apartment. “You would know,” he agreed. Stiles glowered at him, but Derek just shrugged. “But you’re right.”

“I am?” Stiles asked, almost shocked. “I mean, I know I’m right. But you saying—”

Before Stiles could fall into another ramble Derek opened the door and left the car. He didn’t look back, knew the boy was going to follow him and he was proved right when he heard the passenger door opening and closing behind him. He turned slightly, locking the car with the key fob.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asked as he caught up to Derek, who just hit the doorbells randomly, waiting until someone finally used the buzzer and let them in. “Oh no, you are not—” Stiles started, but Derek just pushed the door open.

“You said it yourself. She’s not going to come back.”

“Yeah, I might have said that, but Derek—” There was a hand on his arm, trying to hold him back but he just continued unperturbed, pulling Stiles along. “This is not what I meant. I meant—”

“I know what you meant,” Derek let out with an exasperated sigh. The building had an elevator, so the stairs were probably empty. “You want me to check out the cabin.”

“Yeah, yes,” Stiles stuttered, hand still on his arm even as they passed the door to the staircase.

“Because you want me gone,” Derek elaborated.

Stiles was silent behind him. Derek had thought as much. He didn’t know what Stiles tried to achieve by making him leave but he didn’t care. He had what he wanted, who he wanted. Whatever Stiles was planing, Derek would deal the second it happened. Or not. It didn’t matter after he had that woman in his grasp.

So he just ignored the tell-tale silence, ascending the stairs with Stiles close on his heels, not touching anything.

“Apartment 506.”

“Yep,” Stiles answered, his voice light. Derek nodded, stopping when he saw a bold five at the door leading into a hallway, colored in gentle beige. He took a second to follow the apartment numbers with his eyes, before he turned to the left.

“Have you ever done this?” Stiles whispered as they stood in front of the right door. “I mean, of course you have. When you broke into my home. What am I even asking? You probably used to be a petty thief or something back wherever you came from. Where the fuck did you come from anyway?”

Derek regarded him with a cold look, before he positioned himself in front of the door, his hands hidden from the view of whoever was living next door, claws growing before he pushed them in the key hole, digging around until he could hear a click. Stiles stared open-mouthed at him. Then back at the door. Derek raised his eyebrows with smug amusement. Stiles rolled his eyes and pushed the door open with his sleeve covered hands.

They went inside, closing the door behind them silently. Stiles took a shaky breath before he stumbled around in the dark, looking for a switch. As soon as he slapped it, the light took a while to brighten up, but even in the low light they could make out the room they were standing in.

Stiles sucked a breath in.

“I mean, I know we knew it, but Jesus, that bitch _is crazy,”_ he finally said, breaching the silence.

Derek nodded, his eyes flitting over the walls spiked with pictures, protocols, threads of yarn pointing to different directions. Stiles started to move around, taking in the pictures, opening folders and binders and whatever seemed interesting while Derek just closed the curtains, wary of whoever might get a look at them sneaking around another persons’ apartment.

“Derek,” Stiles called. He turned towards the boy who held up photographs. He moved in closer, arching an eyebrow when he saw himself in front of Stiles’ home, sitting in the Camaro, talking to the cops that had arrested him for stalking. Then pictures of him grocery shopping, fueling his tank while talking to the hunters – the hunters. Stiles must have noticed to, when he suddenly zoomed in on that particular picture. “Who—oh, _those bastards!_ You had contact with them?”

“They bashed my window in,” he explained with a shrug.

“That was two days ago. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s not important.”

“It’s not—” Stiles interrupted himself, mouth wide. “Of course it’s important! What if they had come after  _me?_ ”

“They wouldn’t.”

“What—”

“You were never alone.”

Stiles pressed his lips together. “I want names.”

“No, you don’t,” Derek replied, remembering Scott’s girlfriend.

“What? You’re afraid I’d run to them and rat you out?”

Derek busied himself with the pictures on the walls instead of replying. Stiles just stomped down once, then dropped the topic. “The pictures are blurry but you recognize enough. So she probably took them from very, very far away. Maybe staying down wind?”

“Perhaps,” Derek followed the red strings attached to faces, all leading back to a protocol of the Hale fire. Derek stopped dead in his tracks. “Looks like she tried to find out what happened at your house”, Stiles pointed out needlessly as he followed his eyes.

Derek didn’t pay him any mind.

There were nameless faces, people who might be connected to the death of his family. And then he spotted a grainy picture of Kate, photo probably re-sized and cut from a newspaper but it was definitely Kate, much younger than he could remember her. Derek was shortly distracted by Stiles sucking in a breath as he walked steadily up to him, pushing photographs of himself at Derek’s chest while he leaned forward. For a second Derek thought Stiles was going to take the picture of Kate, but instead he unpinned the protocol, then folded it neatly before jamming it in his pockets. Derek wasn’t going to ask what he was going to do with it. Instead he read a news article dating six years back about some fraud.

Stiles rummaged around on the desk before the abstract chronology when Derek eventually noticed the flickering red button of the answering machine begging for attention. He pondered for a second, before he pushed it down with the tip of one claw.

“You have twelve messages,” a mechanical voice said before a beep. “Jenny, this is Miriam. You said I could call you for the thesis. I’ve tried several times. Your mobile is off. Are you okay?” Stiles looked up from whatever he was reading, narrowing his eyes at the machine. Derek just turned away, listening partially while going back to take in the rest of the room. There were three other messages of this Miriam, one from her sister, politely asking if she wanted to come for Christmas, another few odd ones. Eventually the tape stopped and Derek figured he would have been lucky if he had found someone confessing the murders on her answering machine, but he doubted anyone was that stupid.

And then the phone suddenly rang.

Both looked at it, then at each other.

“Hello, this is Jennifer Hall. Please leave a message after the tone,” her voice mail said and Stiles snorted, mouthing at Derek, “How boring.”

“You are there, right?” the same voice from the recorded message said and both froze. “It’s you right? You’re there, aren’t you? Pick up. Come on, pick up.” There was silence, her voice catching in her throat before she started again. “I know you’re there. I can feel it. Do I have to call the police? Pick up. Or I’ll call the police, telling them there are two strange men in my apartment.” Neither of them moved and it sounded like she was pushing back a sob – or a laugh? – before she continued. “I’m sure Stiles’ father will be thrilled to find out that his son is a common burglar,” there was a sharp note to her voice.

Derek arched an eyebrow and Stiles pressed his lips into a thin line.

“What? No reaction? Did I get the wrong one?” She barked out a dry laugh. “I think I’m going crazy. But I know it’s you. Fine, don’t pick up.”

Derek reached out for the receiver when Stiles hand darted out, holding him back at the wrist.

“Just listen, okay? I know you’re angry, but he forced me to do it. To burn her. There. I left a trail for you. Hints everywhere. And I know you think I killed Laura and Peter. But I didn’t. I swear I didn’t. I promised Laura when she came by, that I would take care of Peter. I promised her. She knew something was up. She knew someone was after her and she wanted me to keep an eye on Peter. I told her I would, just like the years before. I didn’t understand, but I told her I would. Your family has been good to me. I would have done everything for Peter. And when he disappeared I wanted to get Laura, I headed to the Hale mansion, but there was that kid. Stiles. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry, I really am. I didn’t know you weren’t one of them. One of the hunters. Laura taught me—”

There was a decisive beep that abruptly cut the voice off. Derek took a step forward until he could hear the tape rewinding.

“I’m… confused,” Stiles finally offered. Derek just stared at the machine as if it was from outer space. Nothing made sense. Nothing ever had  _started_  to make sense. He didn’t know what hints she had been talking about. Didn’t know what trail. What she meant that she had been  _forced_. He could remember, as he was running through the forest following her scent, the lingering sadistic pleasure.

“I feel like I’m in some god awful horror action movie” Stiles said quietly, craning his neck, probably looking for cameras.

The phone rang again.

“I don’t trust this,” the brunette stated, even before Derek could open his mouth to argue.

“Neither do I,” he replied shrugging, pushed forward to pick the receiver up and put her on speaker phone. Stiles rolled his eyes to the ceiling, before he spun sharply around and headed back to the desk, where he started to collect the material spread out there. Derek kept his eyes on him.

“It’s you, Derek?”

“Yeah,” he replied without conviction. The woman let out a shaky breath.

“Stiles there, too?”

The boy shook his head and flailed his arms. “Yep.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and made a complicated gesture that probably meant showing someone the middle finger without doing so.

“I didn’t mean to burn your sister. He forced me to do it. Threatened  _my_  sister.” Stiles opened his mouth, probably to call bullshit but Jennifer kept rambling on. “She and I, we’re not on good terms. We hardly speak, because I’d been a bitch. But I love her. She’s my sister. I don’t want something to happen to her or her family. So I did what he told me.”

“Who?” Derek asked. Stiles glanced at him sideways.

“Don’t know his name, but he’s a hunter. The one who killed Laura and got Peter.”

Stiles head snapped up. “See, I told you!” he mouthed, pointing his finger accusingly at Derek, who just looked between the phone and the boy in confusion.

“What’s he look like?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did he leave the spiral on the animals?”

“I… spiral? What spiral?”

Derek leaned his head back, taking a few calming breaths because this was beginning to feel like a joke. On him.

“Listen Derek, I tried to warn you. From him. He’s going to kill you.” Stiles stepped next to Derek now, his whole body looking as tense as Derek felt, then glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes. “I’ve got a debt to your family, I have to pay it. I’ll probably pay with my life. I know he’s on to me.”

“A debt…”

“He’s dangerous, he’s smart, he’s tricky, he’s sharp. You better be careful, Derek.”

“Who is it?”

“I. Don’t. Know. I just know he’s after you and he won’t stop until he has your whole family. He knows you are there right now. You better leave.”

Derek wanted to brush her off. If the hunter had really planed to kill him he had enough time already, but he did listen to his surroundings now. There were footsteps on the stairs, but they stopped the floor beneath them. “Delete my message when you go,” she asked quietly, while Stiles rolled his eyes.

“I’ll just get some stuff and we can leave,” he scoffed, motioning with his arms to the papers and everything else the woman had sprawled on the ground and table, turning on his heels and continued to stuff whatever papers he could get his hands on unceremoniously down the front of his jeans or some binders.

“You should ask Stiles what he sees,” Jennifer quickly added just when Derek wanted to hang up, so quietly that a human couldn’t possibly catch it. Then she added, “The thing he can see is real.” Derek stood still, concentrated on not giving anything away. “He sees your uncle.” Derek swallowed, before he turned around to look at the boy. “Ask him. Peter can help you.”

“What” Stiles started, turning his head and narrowing his eyes suspiciously at the phone, “is she saying?” he asked. Derek just shrugged and hung up on her, busying himself with deleting the complete voice recorder as if that would explain her words. Stiles gave an exasperated sigh then grabbed the binders he had already laden with every picture, protocol, pamphlet and whatever he could get his hands on. Derek kept track of the sounds around him, could catch a police car driving by but nothing suspicious.

“Ready to go?” he finally asked, tugging on Stiles’ arm, the questions burning on his lips. Stiles let himself be led out of the apartment, scrunching his nose. Derek yanked on the wrist, hard, pulled him along the hall down the steps and out of the building. Stiles kept his protests to annoyed huffs, but didn’t yell as he was usually prone to do. Until Derek had thrown him into the passenger seat of the car.

“What is  _wrong_  with you?” Stiles growled, eyes fixed on his wrist, reddened from the strong hold.

“We had to get away,” he explained, started the engine. Stiles huffed in annoyance, then pushed his hips up, his back pressed against the backrest as he unzipped his pants and fished the papers out, letting them fall down to the ground.

“You know, again stating the obvious here, but that was hella strange,” Stiles said, dropped his ass down on the seat and puffed out an exhausted breath before he bend down to shuffle the papers together, trying to add them to the binders. “Why does everyone love the cryptic approach? Is it too much to ask for someone to get right to the fucking point? I mean, I know  _I_  talk a lot but damn, was there even a meaning to all that?”

“None,” he answered and Stiles nodded in agreement.

None. But for the information that apparently Stiles Stilinski was able to communicate with his uncle. It was most likely the only thing she wanted him to know.

If it was true.

If it was true, it must have been connected to the hallucination Stiles had brought up, the thing, the something that had been stalking him.

And there was no way Derek could bring that topic up in casual conversation.

Derek could just picture the boy getting all passive-aggressive on him if he even so much as asked about it. He had shut that topic down rather efficiently when Stiles had tried to tell him, when Stiles had been  _willing_  to make it clear that there supposedly was something.

Derek didn’t even actually believe that the witch-hunter-druid-mix was partially psychic, too. He didn’t believe Stiles could talk to the dead. That the answer had been right in front of him for weeks and he had just been too blind to see, to believe, to acknowledge.

But Derek was ready to grab for straws, now, because it had almost been a month of confusing nothing.

They had already left Kelseylake behind before Stiles finally started to settle down, his posture not relaxed but not as much on edge anymore. Stiles must have noticed him looking at him every few minutes, Derek trying to find out how to voice his question when Stiles suddenly turned and looked at him.

“What?” he asked. “Whatever it is, it can’t be as bad as you sneaking glances at me.”

“How… are you?”

Stiles almost suffocated on air. “Well, dear Derek,” he drawled, voice drenched with sarcasm. “I’m very fine. Thank you very much for asking. How are you?” Derek rolled is eyes at the reply, but Stiles wouldn't let him get a word in before he continued. “Dude, fuck,  _I_  should be asking  _you_  that! I mean, what? You think I’m too shocked or scared by the bitch or what? To be honest, I don’t believe even  _one_  word she said and her room was creepy as shit. So how are  _you_ , Derek? How do  _you_  feel after hearing her voice?”

The same as always, he noticed with a bitter pang.

Confused, angry, annoyed, desperate, like a complete failure.

“Like always,” he replied and Stiles’ eyes widened.

“Did you just give me an almost straight answer? Like seriously? I think hell just froze over or something.”

Derek growled at him and Stiles snorted. “That’s my man,” he laughed, hesitating for a short moment before knocking his fist against Derek’s shoulder. Derek just rolled his eyes at the childish behavior.

“What happened to your problem?” he continued, not at all subtle or graceful.

“What problem?”

“That shadow.”

Derek could pin down the exact moment Stiles’ heart slammed on brakes, stopping for a few worrisome milliseconds until it picked up on speed. “There’s nothing. So it’s not a problem,” he lied, one hand brushing over his buzz-cut as he turned his eyes away.

“You just lied to me,” Derek pointed out without abandon.

“According to your logic that meant I said the truth, right?”

Derek frowned.

“It’s a work in progress, okay? I talked to my psychiatrist about it. I’ve laid off the Adderall for a while. So there’s nothing—” Stiles stopped mid-sentence, eyes drawing together as he slowly turned his attention to Derek. “Dude, if you don’t want me around anymore because you finally know who Axe Bitch is then just say so.”

“What.”

Stiles groaned as he shifted in his seat. “Don’t make this sound like you actually  _care_ , because we both know you don’t. You pretending makes me antsy. I’m a grown-up, okay? You can tell me shit like that to my face. I won’t have a nervous breakdown or cry you a river or whatever you thought I’d do. Just drop me off around Scott’s and do whatever you think you have to do.”

Derek blinked.

Right, the caring approach was most likely not the best one, considering that he had  _never_  asked personal questions.

“I don’t think,” he started, glaring at the road, “that you’re a liability.” Which was what Stiles had probably heard from his question.

“Right you don’t,” Stiles replied with a humorless laugh. “Dude, I know you thought so from the beginning. You just coped with me because you needed me, which, hey, I get it. I’m good at that information and advice stuff, so, my last advice before you push me out of your life: don’t trust that stupid bitch. She said Laura had talked to her? Well officially she wasn’t even _in town_.”

“I don’t trust anyone.”

Stiles was silent for a moment. “No shit.”

Derek’s lips curled into a snarl but he stopped himself, instead tightened his grip around the steering wheel. And chose to forgo small talk. Because he was obviously bad at it.

“Can you see ghosts?”

“I don’t see ghosts!” There was not even a delay in the quick reply as Stiles’ head swiveled around. “It’s hallucinations! You told me! Ghosts, come on. Don’t be stupid. Do you realize how ridiculous you sound?”

“So you can see them?”

“I just told you I can’t!”

Derek huffed, then pulled the car to the shoulder. Stiles eyed him suspiciously, eyes darting around looking for something, hefting on the back pack in the back seats, the laptop, the files to his feet and then his arm darted out, aiming for the bag but Derek stopped him at the wrist, pinning him down against the seat.

“Listen Stiles. If there is someone you can see. Or talk to. Tell me who it is.”

The boy laughed nervously. “There’s no-one, dude.”

“You’re scared.”

“Because you are  _scary_ , dude!”

“Of what you see,” Derek explained. “But he doesn’t mean harm.”

“Oh you have no idea—”

“That’s why I’m telling you. If you really see my uncle—”

“Your  _uncle?_ ”

“He can help me.”

“Derek listen to yourself. I can’t see ghosts! I don’t see your uncle. Now get off me!”

“Don’t make me force you.”

Stiles barked out another laugh. “Force me? Oh come on—”

Derek didn’t hesitate as his hand latched onto Stiles’ neck, his claws slowly digging in. “Tell me, Stiles. Or this is going to hurt.”

Stiles’ eyes darted around helplessly. “There’s nothing to tell you, for fucks sake!”

“Even if it sounds crazy. I’ll take my chance.”

“Yeah? You never took any chances with  _me_.”

“I did by bringing you along.”

Stiles looked at him, lips twitching in disgust and anger.

“Tell me.”

“Fuck you.”

Derek took a deep breath, then he put the tip of the claws against the skin of Stiles’ nape. The boys’ eyes widened as he pressed his hands against Derek’s chest to push him off.

“Okay, wait, you don’t understand.”

Derek looked at him expectantly.

“Your uncle, okay? He’s not good. He’s not harmless—”

“You  _do_  see him?”

“Yes, but seriously, you don’t want to meet. He’s trouble. He—” Before Stiles could even continue with his ramble, Derek pushed his claws in, stopping short from the spine. Derek let out a gasp as he felt something fighting the connection, the vision in front of his eyes blurry. The second he regained his footing he looked at Stiles, the boys’ eyes wide in horror, mouth open forming aborted breaths and out of the corner of his eyes he saw a flicker, nothing concrete but a human-shaped silhouette.

“Uncle Peter?” he asked when he turned around to face it, trying to fight a sudden piercing headache as he looked at the darkness outside the car. Stiles’ hands weakly pushed against his grip. The shadow was almost motionless, except for a vague tilting of its head. “Is it… you?” The head tilted to the other side, almost in confusion and Derek felt stupid for talking to it, if it wasn’t for the fact that there  _was_  something to talk to. Something strangely familiar. “I need your help,” he pressed on. “If you can hear me, I need you to give me a sign. Raise a finger. Shake your head. Anything. Just, just something to point me in the right direction, okay?”

The silhouette was still for a moment. Then a nod. Derek gasped with a strong current of numbing pain, his head slightly jerking to the side in an attempt to fight it down. Was a connection supposed to feel like this? He had seen his mother do it once but her expression had never changed, not in pain. Derek shook his head again, before he finally forced his eyes open. Yet, before he could continue the shape held its arm up, pointing at its wrist. Derek furrowed his brows. The silhouette stepped closer, absurdly partially leaning through the metallic frame of the Camaro and then a dark finger pointed to Stiles’ wrist. It took Derek a moment to comprehend.

“The watch?”

The silhouette nodded again and Stiles hissed.

“No Derek, don’t—”

Derek ignored him, wrestling the watch from the wrist, almost tearing the straps and suddenly everything seemed easier, a weight lifted off his shoulder, the headache and the pull on his skull gone. The connection between them was easier to maintain now, a constant harsh flow. And the silhouette shifted, from black to color, features sharpening and Derek’s eyes widened as he suddenly really saw Peter in front of him.

“You…”

“Hello nephew.”

Derek had trouble closing his mouth. He was just staring at the person, ghost, hallucination - whatever it was in front of him. However Stiles was fighting against his grip now, struggling to get away. Yelling and cursing brought him back to focus.

“You don’t know what you are doing, Derek.”

“You knew!” he just snarled accusingly. “I could have—”

“He  _killed_  your  _sister_ , Derek!”

“Bullshit,” Derek replied, then turned back to Peter. “What happened?”

“I’m sorry, Derek,” Peter said. “I can’t remember much. My memory is clouded.”

“Don’t listen to him!” Stiles shouted.

Peter smiled wistfully. “Don’t be angry at Stiles, Derek. He’s allowed to be scared after everything that happened. Being a medium and not knowing. Being told he’s crazy by everyone. It’s not easy. Please have some understanding.”

“I’m  _not_  a fucking  _medium_.”

“Shut up,” Derek growled at the boy.

“He’s not real! I see things all the time. You know I do! It’s just the medication!”

“Poor boy. Being told something like that at such a young age.”

“Shut up,  _Peter_.” There was a misplaced kick against the control of the car and then Stiles tried to twist under his grip. Derek tightened his hold, pushing harder against the body to keep it still until he realized his hand was pushing against the rips, pressing down too hard but he couldn’t work the nerve up to care.

“You don’t know,” Derek repeated now, angry and defeated. “Why don’t you  _know?_ ” Why did the woman tell him to get to Peter if he can’t even  _help?_  What had been the point about him finding out that Peter was partially alive somewhere in a intermediate zone if he couldn’t do  _anything?_

“She said you could help.”

Peter looked confused and Derek’s shoulders slacked.

“Someone killed Laura,” he finally explained, because he wasn’t sure if Peter was aware of that. He looked at Stiles because he couldn’t bear to look at his uncle, the scars of the fire visible on his face. The teenager had his eyes closed, breathing harshly but forcefully calm, almost looking delirious now. He smelt sick, too.

The connection was draining him, and his fight had just made it worse.

“Your niece. Laura?” he continued after a moment’s silence.

“I remember Laura,” Peter said slowly.

“Whoever they are, they are Hunters,” Derek watched Stiles for a moment, before he looked up. “They knew what they did. To you. I don’t know how strong they are… or… he is but he’s been in hiding. I can take him. But I have to find him first.” Peter remained silent, unwavering. “Look, if you know something, if you remember, just tell me. Is it one of the hunters from the fire?”

“Do you really want revenge?” Peter suddenly asked.

Derek furrowed his brow. “What do you mean.”

“If there is a way to get Laura back,” Peter looked uncertain. “Would you really waste it to seek revenge?”

Derek stilled and so did Stiles. “What?”

“I assume you are the Alpha now,” Peter explained slowly. “So there would be a way. There is a ritual. You need an Alpha with a connection.”

“Laura was burned,” Derek said, fighting to keep the stinging pain of his voice. “Her upper body. Can we still… Is it still possible?”

There was a look of surprise that changed into a sad grimace. “No. And I don’t remember anything from what happened. I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

Derek looked at him, then growled and Stiles gasped.

“The ritual. Would it work on you?”

Peter’s eyes widened. “Yes, it would, but—”

“Then I can bring  _you_  back?”

“Derek  _no_ ,” Stiles gasped, voice weak. “You don’t know what you’re doing. Don’t! Not  _him_. Laura’s body was  _burned_. He did it. He told  _that bitch—_ ”

“Tell me what I need to do.” Derek said, interrupting Stiles’ protest.

Peter just looked at him for a moment. “I—Thank you,” he said in a soft voice that surprised Derek more than the fact that he was talking to his dead uncle. Peter had never spoken in this tone of voice to anyone but his wife and daughter. “If you are really willing to do it.”

Derek nodded determined.

“Timing is key here, Derek,” Peter started, suddenly all business and Stiles struggle got worse, his nails scratching into Derek’s hand, clawing to try and let him lose his grip. He was about to have enough of that as he pushed Stiles’ body deeper into the seat, knocking the air out of his lungs for a moment. He could see Stiles reaching for something, so he pressed his arms to his sides.

“Fuck you, Derek.”

“Shut up Stiles.”

Stiles breath hitched, and he pressed his eyes together, reeking of fear and anger and desperation and humiliation, tears forming at the corner of his eyes and Derek had to force his eyes away.

It was Stiles’ fault.

He could have made it simple. He could have just  _talked_.

“Derek?” Peter asked.

“Just tell me what I need to know,” Derek said.

“It all needs to happen by the next full moon,” Peter said

“That’s Wednesday.”

Peter nodded. “Do you know what they call the full moon in October? It's called the Blood Moon.”

“Wrong,” Stiles mumbled softly. Peter let his eyes wander to the boy, a tight smile on his face.

“That’s right, it has many names, doesn’t it? But I always thought Blood Moon was the most accurate.”

“Wrong again,” Stiles argued. Irritated, Derek cupped his hand over the boys’ mouth, pointedly looking at Peter who caught his gaze and continued to explain. “The veils between the worlds are the thinnest on this night. You probably noticed it, too, Stiles? That  _your_  power grows stronger around that time?”

Stiles mumbled something against Derek’s hand that sounded like ‘screw you’, but it was weak and Stiles seemed more like he was sleep talking now.

Peter shrugged, turned to Derek again and then started to explain the ritual in great detail, logical like a chemical reaction while Derek thought that it sounded more crazy than possible. But this was Peter. Peter who had been a genius with all that magical stuff Derek wouldn’t even touch with a stick because it simply sounded like too much. Peter always knew what he was talking about. Peter had always been right. Even about Kate.

So he listened. About the blood of an Alpha werewolf as a medium between dead and living werewolf, acting on some kind of donor-acceptor principle. Listened about the moon light focused on the connection as it worked as a catalyst. Peter didn’t stop once, rushing through the explanation while making sure that Derek understood everything perfectly to an extent that made Derek glare at him because it sounded suspiciously like his uncle thought he was stupid.

“There’s another thing,” Peter said, hesitating for the first time, eyes shifting to Stiles, who was sweating, his body trembling, strained from the long duration of the connection and completely out by now. His breathing was shallow, his body limp. Derek knew what it meant. That he would have to end the connection soon. “There’s the need of an initiator, someone who has a certain affinity. To magic.”

“You mean  _him?_ ” Derek shook his head. “He won’t help.”

“You don’t have to ask, do you?” Peter asked innocently.

Derek’s mouth went dry as he looked back to Stiles. “This—this is bad—”

“Derek. It won’t work without Stiles.” His uncle said, hard, but then his face softened. “Of course, in the end it’s your decision. I won’t blame you if you have grown… fond of him.”

“What?”

“I know he has been helping you for a long time now. He is interesting, is he not? I promise you, he won’t come to harm. His spark would just trigger the reaction. Simple as that. I mean, you don’t have to force him. You can just ask him, convince him, but I doubt he is going to agree.” Peter stopped for a moment, awaiting his reaction. There was none. Derek just stared at him. “You don’t believe he will, too. But ask him, if you want. If he doesn’t want to, it’s up to you how you handle it. I won’t hold it against you if you don’t want to force him.”

Derek’s face hardened. “He will help. One way or another.”

Peter nodded. “Usually you would need direct contact. However, there is a way to avoid that. He would just have to be in the vicinity. Trapping him would help too, for that matter.”

“Trapping.”

“With runes.”

When had they suddenly become so important?

“I know you know next to nothing about them,” Peter huffed in a voice that almost made Derek rethink this whole thing. “But there is a shop in Sacramento. It’s called Rubik's Cube. Head there. Rubik will know what you need.”

Derek wanted to ask how that Rubik would know but then stopped himself. Probably more of that magic stuff going on.

“You better let him go, now, Derek,” Peter advised. “It looks like he is about to go into shock. If you chose to do it, I trust you to know what to do.”

“Yes.”

Peter nodded, then motioned with his hand to Stiles.

Derek threw one last look at his uncle, taking in the haggard silhouette, the scar covering half his face. Then he slowly pulled his claws out of Stiles’ nape, flexing his fingers. There was a breathy gasp from the brunette boy and Derek lifted his weight from his body, instead rested Stiles gently almost comfortably against the seat. Stiles’ eyelids fluttered, but shut tight as a groan escaped his lips.

Derek watched him for another moment, listing to his steady slow heartbeat, the tiny breaths, waited for his own hands to stop shaking and his head to stop spinning before he pulled the car back into the lane.

Stiles hissed at the movement of the car.

Derek hesitated for a second, debating with himself, before he eventually put his fingertips on the boy’s hand, just a flimsy brush to find out in how much pain Stiles was. Not to remedy what he had just forced on him.

It was uncomfortable. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had taken someone’s pain. He kept his hands placed against the damp cold skin, to check on pulse, he told himself while his own veins pulsed through dark black waves.

He kept the connection until he arrived at Beacon Hills. Until he stopped two streets down to the McCall house, a quiet, empty area, where no one was around at this time of day. He didn’t let go, just looked out the window into the dark, his mind not even wandering, just focused on the constant stream of pain in his right hand, while he just hoped that none of the concerned citizens were going to show up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got some problems with this chapter. I was about to erase the whole scene in the theater because I just think it's completely... not good. I don't know. Maybe I'm just overly critical after finishing the first arc. I guess I just want to move on and not come back to this anymore. I have a tendency to hate my complete works. Might be because I've read these chapters like _five-billion times already_ and I just can't stand _looking_ at them anymore. Urks.
> 
> So if you catch a plot hole, please let me know. I'll correct everything, because at this point in time, not even my Phthalate glasses are gonna help me anymore.
> 
>  **Little thoughts on the Camaro:** I know Derek's driving the 2010 model, I do my research, yep! But I just can't imagine him buying that thing and driving around with it unless he's super into speed and car racing. He's probably the last to chicken, because, hey, freaky werewolf healing power and even if he died, he believes it's what he deserves. And then short before driving off a cliff or crashing against a wall he realizes, that if he died, his sister would have no one left and then he feels guilty and would stop for a month until another wave of anger hits him. Or something.
> 
> Anyway, yeah, I can't picture Derek buying the Camaro. In Brooklyn. Unless for above reason. Where would he even park that thing? Let alone using the insurance money for something like that. Therefore I made it Eric's car. I know next to nothing about cars. Let alone about prices so I looked it up and even used they are freaking expensive, but I did find an old model (2000; in red but fuck me if they didn't make them in black too!) looking almost like Derek's for $8000 so I used that as reference.
> 
>  **On the Alpha connection:** Reeeally not sure what you can do with that connection. We see Peter giving Scott, and most likely Derek, too, his memories of the fire and his thoughts and it gets Derek to help him. Derek uses it once on Jackson to make him go mental. Or maybe that was just a side effect. Anyhoo, I thought, well if you can channel memories, you sure as hell can channel other stuff, hence the Peter hallucination.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger warning for epilepsy and seizure happening in this chapter and Derek _NOT HANDLING IT RIGHT_.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> I've made some research, read up on the topic, but I'm not sure I got it right. If you have experience with seizures and spot something that doesn't make sense or is blatantly wrong, please let me know and I will change it accordingly. I don't mean to offend anyone by portraying it wrong.
> 
> Beta-ed by the most fabulous [AliceRayne](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceRayne/pseuds/AliceRayne)! I kneel before you!

His whole body was draped in soft cotton, his mind fuzzy and there was something white flickering behind his eyelids as he felt himself floating through… candy clouds. Yes. Candy clouds! All soft and fluffy and warm and delicious. He felt content, secure and so very, very good he never wanted to move again. No, he would just stay like this, all snugg—aaaand it was gone.

It was like he had been hit with a fucking sledgehammer. He hurt in places he wasn’t even aware he had. On his own body. Apart from the pain though he felt like he usually only did after waking on a sleep-deprived Monday morning after a long weekend of hardcore gaming. All confused and shifted reality and wondering where the fuck all the dragons had gone.

Stiles opened one eye, groans and grunts of protest coming over his lips as he tried to not move. Because moving was bad. Really bad. 

He was still in the Camaro, he realized in some detached way that should probably tell him something. But he was… confused… Somehow. Off. Conflicted. Dichotomous? Yes, dichotomous was a good word. Just that it wasn’t. Because it felt like unified but dissolved at the same time.

Derek was beside him, slumped over his steering wheel, eyes glued to the front.

Stiles felt safe enough to open his other eye.

“Jesus,” he cawed. Derek made no indication that he had heard him. Which only meant he had known Stiles had woken up long before he had fought his way through sticky treats. “What happened?”

At that, Derek glanced at him.

Stiles frowned and pushed his body up on the seat, groaning again when a sudden bolt of electricity shot right through his spine ending in a blinding headache. “My head hurts,” he declared after a few halting seconds. Though he might have slurred that sentence like he was drunk—which, hey. “Did we get drunk? Like, did I empty someone’s liquor store? Feels like I did. Did I? Did we?”

“No.”

“Fine… that’s good, I guess… would have been awkward to explain. To my father… or, no… the department. Or fuck. I feel so fucked. I mean, it’s not like you can get drunk anyway, right? Or… can you get drunk?” He frowned at his own question. Because why  _shouldn’t_  Derek be able to get drunk? Oh right. Because… Werewolves?

Gosh, his brain was mush.

_Mental mush._

Derek continued his silent treatment.

Did he do something wrong?

Stiles glared through the window in concentration, trying to find out what had been going on but his memory was one big fuck up: Flickers of darkness and a bright room mixing and tearing apart. It was ludicrous. So Stiles did, what he always did; resolving things by talking.

“I guess,” he started slowly, pushing his head in his hands, “you’re angry? At me?” And yes, there it was. Something more concrete. The assumption that Derek was pissed at him was right about 100% of the time. It was safe to start with that. And then he remembered them, the bits and pieces. Jennifer Hall. They left the house. And then— “You were talking. To someone? Not me, I think.” Derek stiffened beside him and right, that was it. Derek snarling at him. Again, not exactly unusual but this time it felt truly threatening and yep, because Derek was a freaking nightmarish werewolf with inhuman superpowers that had kept him in place. Because his hand had pressed him on his stomach into the seat and—“You had your hand—” The other hand… it had been around his neck.

Not around.

His fingers suddenly shot up, brushing against his nape, touching something rough, flaking off under his nails, gibbous, another burst of pain making him dizzy. When he removed the hand and brought it to his face, something dark stained the skin. Scraps of dried blood.

Stiles’ eyes widened.

His heart started beating in his throat. He wanted to jump up. He wanted to run away. But his body was rooted to the spot in frightened confusion until it finally hit him like a freight train.

“You attacked me,” he breathed, faint and panicked, lips trembling. It  _hurt_. It shouldn’t  _hurt_.

“No, I didn’t.”

He choked out an incredulous breath, his mouth open in disbelief, barely contained anger unleashing in small quivers of clenched limbs when he turned to look at Derek, who simply sat next to him, tense but seemingly unperturbed.

“You,” he growled, and something in his brain snapped. “ _Fuck you._ ” he yelled, balling his hands to fists to control the tremors. Now the car was too small, the air too stuffy, he felt like the walls were closing in on him. He reached for the handle to get out, but the door wouldn’t budge. It took his frenzied brain a long time to realize that it was locked. “Open the door,” he demanded, wildly looking around for someone in the streets— _anyone._

“No.”

His fuck no, not his,  _Stiles’_  heart was trying to climb to his throat in panic at the realization that he was trapped in there. With Derek. He was burning with anger and humiliation. Getting caught by a freaking  _werewolf_. He was a laughing stock, a complete embarrassment, a bad joke.

His lips twisted under a snarl, and he gave up on the handle. He was done with empty words, he was so done with all of this. He needed to get out and he needed to get out  _now._

“Stiles, calm down.”

“I  _am_  calm. I’m fucking  _zen_. Do I  _not_  seem calm? Because considering that you  _attacked me_ —”

“You forced me.”

“ _I forced you?_  Are you fucking  _kidding_  me?” Stiles’ voice was high, hysterical, tripping over words.

“You could have told me,” Derek snapped back now, glaring at him like  _Stiles_  had done something wrong. Like it was all  _his_  fault. “You  _should_ have told me.”

He wasn’t listening.

His eyes darted to the backpack disposed on the back seat. It had the mountain ash, sealed in a vacuum closed bag so Derek couldn’t smell it. Now he cursed his caution.

“You  _knew_  it was my uncle,” Derek continued, his words just a hazy patter against his conscience. Stiles’ eyes roamed further down to the binders at his feet. “Look at me,” Derek demanded, angry now. The boy bent down instead, putting one folder against the window but before he could haul his elbow out to slam it against the paper, to break the glass to get out. out.  _out_  Derek yanked him forward, hand firmly wrapped around his wrist.

He let out a loud yelp, reaching with his other hand for something to hold on, for something to give him leverage, when Derek snatched that too, keeping both wrists firm and still in his hands, fingers digging deep against his pulse-point. Stiles’ breath came in short, fast puffs; his eyes wide in fear. An all too familiar coldness festered in his stomach like a block of ice; dark spots dancing in his vision.

“Let me go,” he yelled.  _“Let me go!_ ”

“Calm down.”

He wasn’t going to calm down. Not with those hands holding him in place, making him realize how fucking stupid, weak, stupid, weak, weak,  _weak_  he was. Because Derek wouldn’t budge no matter how much weight he put in his attempt to get away, no matter how much he squirmed to wriggle free and Derek, fuck Derek was going to kill him. He was dead and no one was there to help him.

He knew he was breathing too fast, his vision was blurry, his thoughts running. He wouldn’t get out of this car. It didn’t matter. There was no one who cared for him anyway. Hell, there was no one who even knew he  _existed_. Besides his aunt and grandfather. They were prepared, occupational hazard, it came with the job description. Warning: possible death by angry mystical creature.

But not  _Stiles._  

Stiles didn’t deserve that. He was supposed to protect him. And he had failed. Spectacularly. Stiles was going to die. Because he had overestimated himself, because he had thought he was untouchable and smart and had it all planned out.

“Stiles. Are you going to help me?” Derek’s voice reached him over the constant rush of blood and thoughts and pain and guilt in his ears and through his head and his hitched quick breathing and when the words finally sunk in, when he  _understood_  he barked out a sarcastic laugh.

“Help  _you?_ ” His voice cracked, but the shock to his system was enough to push the creeping darkness at the side of his vision that he recognized all too well as hyperventilation away. Making way for outrage and disgust in its stead.  _“Help you?”_  he repeated. “Screw you, you asshole. The fuck I’m going to do anything for  _you_.”

 _And with what?_  he asked himself and then—the ritual.

It was like another blow to the gut.

Because Derek had torn down his wards, he had spoken to Peter, Peter and his plan and—Derek closed in, his expression unreadable. “He’s my uncle. He’s the only family I have left. You should understand.”

Low blow.

“Fuck. You,” he growled again, kicking against the door, making as much noise as he could, hoping someone would hear, would react and suddenly Derek released his hold. He immediately scrambled back as far as the car would let him as soon as he had regained his balance.

“Think about it,” Derek said. A dull clack. The car unlocking. Stiles fumbled blindly for the handle, falling backwards out of the Camaro when the door was pushed open by his weight. He landed on his ass, hands scraping over the asphalt as he scrambled back, before stumbling into a stand.

Then he turned around and ran.

He knew if Derek decided to pursue him there was nothing he could do, there was no way he could outrun a werewolf.

But Derek didn’t follow him.

Not that he was aware of at least. He could barely concentrate on finding the way back, he even had trouble figuring out where he was until he recognized the lawn gnomes in a garden that could only be the Timmermans’.

Scott’s house was one street over. He only had to climb over the fence, avoid their Doberman Delilah who, according to Scott, loved to chew on shoes and pounce on unsuspecting bystanders in greeting and lick their faces. However the second he landed on the other side of the fence, carefully maneuvering through the gnomes there was no bundle of joy waiting to jump him. There was only a whimpering mess hidden in its kennel, whining and yelping, tail between its legs.

Stiles’ clenched his jaw, eyes wild as he looked around for red dots in the darkness, as he listened for breathing, for footsteps. But there was nothing. Nothing he could see. Nothing  _he could see._  Though something the dog could hear, sense, smell. Something that scared her.

His hands were still shaking, his whole body was trembling. He swallowed deeply, then continued, stumbling over his own feet to get across the lawn, the next fence, and then the street. Finally he reached Scott’s house. He pulled his car keys out of his jeans pockets.

The second he closed the door to the jeep he let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. Rage pulsed through his veins as he tried to get his bearings together, to get his body calm enough to drive without wrapping the car around the next tree.

He had to get himself under control.

Small steady breaths.

Comforting thoughts.

All he could remember was the first time he had been in a situation like this. When his grandfather had left him alone at camp, had promised him that nothing was going to happen. That he would be fine as long as he stayed put. He had obeyed. And then there had been a woman, long legs, long arms, inhumanly wide lips shaped into a ghoulish grin with pointy teeth.

That really wasn’t helping.

He choked back a hysterical laugh.

Nope, really not helping.

“Comforting thoughts, comforting thoughts.  _Come on!_ ” That was probably the joke of the year. He didn’t even know what comfort actually  _meant_. “Okay, here goes nothing,” he told himself, digging blunt nails deep into the skin of his lower arm, leaving small white imprints on his way up, focusing on the prickling pain.

When his hands slowly stopped shaking, hopefully stable enough to keep the steering wheel from swinging around, he pushed the key into the ignition, released the handbrake before he shifted into reverse. He needed to get home. There was no way in hell he would waste a night sleeping. No. He was going to have every rune in house redone, he was going to fill up his weapon arsenal, clean the Flintlock, reap some herbs and grind them to dust and he was going to lay traps all over the place.

He was ready to prepare for fucking war if he had to.

He was done with Derek Hale and stupid werewolves and the next time he saw the man he was going to crush him under his heels. He wouldn’t let himself feel this weak again, not like he had just a few minutes ago, when all he could do was scream and yell and kick and hope that Derek wouldn’t touch him, wouldn’t hurt him.

And Derek.

He tightened his grip around the wheel.

Derek, the fucking asshole, wasn’t even  _sorry_.

It felt like betrayal when it shouldn’t, when it wasn’t. Not even two weeks and Stiles got  _attached_. It was fucking laughable. And now he had to deal with this attachment, had to deal with these fucking  _feelings_  that weren’t even his to begin with, a lingering echo reverberating inside him from someone who didn’t even know what was waiting beneath that dormant scowl.

Stiles was a stupid fool.

He came to an abrupt halt in the drive way, cringing when the tires screeched on the asphalt, hoping that his neighbors did not just hear him going all Fast and the Furious on the street.

Then he decided he didn’t care.

The hunter stormed into the house, directly down the basement. He threw a quick look around, pulled jars out of the shelves; he needed wards, better, stronger, some that would keep Derek out. And why  _didn’t they keep him out?_  Why could he enter, why could he come into his yard and home and invade Stiles’ life?

He bit his lips. Took another deep breath.

This wasn’t the time.

He needed weapons. He needed more than just his flintlock. A dagger, an enchanted kitchen knife if he fucking had to. His stun gun. But close combat was out of the question. Something wide ranged. And he must be really freaking desperate to consider his old  _slingshot._

He needed something to keep a distance; something that would let him attack from afar and still hurt like a bitch. Or maybe Derek would let him close. Convinced there was nothing Stiles could do to harm him. But he… no, he would have to work up the courage. He needed… he needed  _something_.

He needed  _help_.

He needed someone.

But there was no help.

No sudden cavalry. No prince in shining armor to save the damsel in distress.

He gritted his teeth.

It wasn’t like he really expected that.

In one swift movement he grabbed his silver runed dagger and climbed out of the wine cellar, heading to the greenhouse. He knew he shouldn’t do this while seething with anger, needed to stay calm, to be collected, detached and impassible. Not ashamed, not mortified of his own idiocy.

He had become cocky, had thought it was all playing to his favors, that he was all in the know. But it didn’t and he wasn’t. He was still a sixteen year old boy who needed help to get this over with.

Stiles was digging in the dirt with a small garden shovel to get to the roots of the Veratum, tears of frustration prickling behind his eyes. He stopped for a moment when he noticed that his shaking hands prevented him from digging without scratching the root.

He took another deep breath in.

He wasn’t  _Stiles_.

Stiles was helpless and useless and had panic attacks and hyperventilated and couldn’t  _deal with reality_. Not him. He was the level-headed one, the one to find a way out of every mess, the one who took control when everything was spinning out of proportions. He wasn’t the one feeling like he was getting crushed by his own fucked up life. It wasn’t even  _his_  life to begin with.

This was Stiles’ life. This was Stiles’ burden.

He just helped shouldering it, lifting the weight a little.

Like he had done before and like he would always do.

This was just a temporary backlash, an obstacle on his way to keep Stiles alive. A foolish mistake he had to learn from. Something he had to overcome.

He brushed his forearm over nose, then eyes, taking another shaky breath.

This was a rite of passage.

Something like that.

‘Make it or die trying’ or whatever the phrase was. ‘What didn’t kill you made you stronger’.  _Il faut que le coeur se brise ou se bronze,_  his aunt had said and then laughed, given him a pat on the shoulder before she left him to kill or die. That day he had made his choice. He had stood up, bloody knife in hand as his heart pounded hard in his chest. He had decided that this wasn’t going to break Stiles. That nothing was going to break Stiles _ever again_.

So this? This was  _nothing_.

He ran his hand over his head, hair prickling his palm. Crouched on his knees, jeans stained with dirt, balls of his hands now firmly pressed against his eyes, kaleidoscopic white patterns dancing in front of his vision.

Yes, he was doing this.

He was good at this.

Stiles was going to be fine, he chanted this like a mantra and then clenched his jaw in determination. Veratum as poison. Mugwort for protection. Great Morel for the Full Moon. Devil's Guts to fucking banish Peter Hale. And something for his nerves. Xanax. Or Atarax. Either. Both.

He nodded to himself in resolve, then continued to work in quiet diligence, only interrupting once when he thought he had caught something in his yard. Stiles’ hand had gone for the dagger on instinct, holding it close to his body.

There was nothing in the dark. No Derek. No Peter. He wasn’t surprised about Peter though. After the incident in the changing room he had stormed home, turned everything upside down until he  _finally_  found the piece of claw under a cupboard. He had immediately burned it together with rowan, salt and blood meal. He wasn’t sure exactly what ingredient had finally done the deed but the wound had started to close up so he really didn’t care. There was nothing left in there as well, thank God for small favors. At least he hadn’t felt anything strange as he had continued to push and prod against the skin. So Peter’s ghost, echo, whatever it was, couldn’t reach him anymore.

He really should have exorcised Peter.

He had looked stuff up but everything he had found on the internet were some superstitious sites with rhythms that didn’t even rhyme. They weren’t even in Latin. He wasn’t exactly sure how a language factored into a spell – yes, like a fucking witch spell, he was desperate, sue him – but mainstream media had screwed with his expectations.

Honestly, he figured languages were secondary. He could form a spell in Polish or Russian or pidgin. It wasn’t like all demons or monsters used the same language. And it wasn’t like they had to understand him.

At the end of the day it was all about belief anyway.

After a moment he returned his attention back to the row of herbs. If Derek was out there, well he had a hidden stash of mistletoe and mandrake Derek could fucking choke on if he had a death wish.

It took him ages to collect the herbs, knees and back aching from the kneeling position. Not to forget the throbbing reminder in his neck and the scratches on his palm from the asphalt. He carried on relentlessly, though.

It wasn’t like he had all the time in the world.

Peter and Derek had a plan.

As he was sitting in the Camaro, he had barely held on to consciousness at the beginning. The watch had kept Derek’s prying to a minimum, wouldn’t let the bond form. Stupid fucking Peter being stupidly fucking smart of course knew what warded Stiles. He had the suspicion the man had inherited all the cunning and intelligence and left nothing for the rest because Derek? Yeah, Derek was a stupid little fuck to be tooled with.

Fighting the bond Derek had created between them had strained him even more and he had barely understood a word after the coldness had started to creep into his bones.

He knew about the resurrection, the part that he would have laughed at if it hadn’t been for claws digging into his body, sharp and close enough to tear his nervous system to shreds if they went in just a little deeper.

He knew they probably needed him for that. For what, he didn’t know. Maybe for contacting Peter. Derek hadn’t been quite forthcoming with his information. Or maybe he had been and he just hadn’t listened because he had been distracted by  _the swallowing fear._

e could remember feeling cold and Derek’s body heat radiating off him, making it something that he had craved and feared at the same time, because the hotter Derek’s body had felt, the colder his own had grown. For a second he had firmly believed he was a goner.

Death by claw and not even in the sense he had always assumed Stiles’ life would end sooner or later.

But he didn’t die.

Derek didn’t kill him when he was out cold.

 _Because they needed him_ , he reminded himself.

They needed him for  _something_.

He would make sure to stay the fuck away, maybe even skip school. Fake _death_ if he had to. Maybe lock Scott and Melissa up even if it meant another stay in the nuthouse. A price he was willing to pay if it meant they were protected.

When Stiles took the basket with the herbs back to the porch he stopped on the steps, eyeing the runes on either side of the door. He put the basket down, took the dagger out and breached the few steps to the frame, hesitating.

He looked at the symbols, the protection wards that did nothing to protect him. Then he put the sharp end of the blade to the faded color. These were the last remainders of Stiles’ mother. A proof how much she had treasured her family, how much she wanted them safe, proof of her existence when most was gone.

Stiles’ mother had drawn them.

Not his mother.

This wasn’t important. Not to him. Not anymore. It was useless now. Just a stain on the wood.

He curled his lips into a silent snarl before he started to scrape the symbols off, flakes of colored wood floating to the ground. He could feel a pull on his insides with every rune he broke, like something was taken away from him. The air around him buzzing with released energy, almost electrified until it eventually lessened

Simple mountain ash would have to prove plenty enough to stop Derek from entering for a few days. Every other creature that could overpower mountain ash, well, he would just have to hope that nothing like that was around and out to get him right now.

Three days to the full moon. He would have to get by somehow. Time to prepare, to figure out a strategy in dealing with Derek if the animal even so much as breathed his way. Finding a way to keep everyone he cared for safe at the same time. And the Sheriff department. If it wasn’t too risky and if he wouldn’t doubt they would ever believe a word out of his mouth ever again he would just frame Derek for killing his uncle.

Fuck, he  _knew_  where the corpse was buried and maybe he should just invade Hale territory and burn Peter like the monster had Laura, stripping Derek of the only way to get her back, just to save his own fucking psychopathic ass.

And Laura.

God  _Laura_.

He had looked her up, researched her for hours, trailing her several jobs back to the time of the fire. She had been so normal. Had even been on Facebook. She used to have friends, used to have a life, used to be smart and funny and at the same time withdrawn and tight-lipped the second you tried to get deeper, get to the core.

He dropped down on the stairs, his body tipping to the side, leaning against the handrail.

The only reason Derek was here was to find out  _why_  she was killed and  _who_  had killed her, stolen his last remaining, _sane_ family member. And Derek had been … placid. Didn’t go on a rampage and kill every citizen of the town. He hadn’t even shifted in front of him, not once. Apart from that one time he forced on him, yes. And today, when he almost went ballistic in the car but right, his eyes had been flashing and he had growled, low and threatening but he had his shift under control—and what the hell was he trying to  _do?_

Was he really trying to talk himself out of killing Derek upon sight?

What… just.

Alright. So Derek probably knew Stiles was a liar, he had accused him of lying, he had known he was lying, he had known Stiles was hiding something from him and he had a lot,  _a lot_  of chances to hurt him and had never acted upon it. Not apart from his usual violent behavior and  _God_. Did he just accept that as a character trait?

And right, he should have told Derek. He should have told him but, fuck Derek. The man had threatened Scott and Stiles the first time they met and the second encounter left an even deeper impression, pain wise; which, as he had time to figure out, was Derek’s default approach to everything. Nothing personal, just Derek Hale being a fucking stupid violent dip shit, because using words was obviously too much to ask for.

What did he expect anyway?

Derek was an animal. An animal wasn’t supposed to speak to begin with, wasn’t supposed to look human or so unbelievably defeated and desperate and sad while watching a wedding scene in The Godfather.

Fuck werewolves.

Seriously just screw them all. Blind hate had served him well for years, so why should he suddenly start thinking that there’s more to them than met the eye? Screw whimpering ladies with little cubs and Alphas with a fucked up sense of humor, and especially screw Derek Hale.

He stomped his feet loudly unto the stairs as he finally got up. There was wood rasp to clean and plants to dry and homework to do. Probably. Not that he would actually do it because he was ready to face plant into bed and never wake up.

Which of course was the moment the doorbell chose to ring.

He turned on his heel, cautiously entering the house, advancing to the door, silver dagger hidden behind his back. But before he was close enough to check on the intruder, someone banged against the door, followed by furious yells. “Stiles! Where are you?” When Scott’s voice reached him, Stiles’ shoulders sagged a little in relief, before they stiffened again, because Scott was out there. Derek maybe too. “Open the fuck up!”

He hurried to push the dagger under magazines stacked on the side table and then threw the door wide open. He was about to usher Scott in, when his friend shouldered his way past him, storming into the living room without stopping and then up the stairs.

Stiles just stood there, bewildered.

When Scott came down again he trailed immediately to the couch and unceremoniously dropped down in a tired mess.

“I—”

“Don’t,” Scott interrupted him, barely contained anger slipping into his voice, his feet bouncing nervously on the wooden floor as he ran his hand through his hair. “Are you alright?”

He swallowed, watching Scott looking him up and down. “Just didn’t feel like staying over.”

“‘Didn’t feel like staying over’,” Scott repeated, blankly, his mouth open for a few seconds before it snapped shut, his face twisted in anger now. “You could have at least answered your freaking phone,” he screeched and then abruptly curled back into himself, surprised about his own outburst.

“I… yeah, no,” the brunette stammered, patted his jeans, “I mean, sorry, yeah. You’re right.” He looked around the room for his backpack, was about to head into the hallway before he froze.

“Shit,” he cursed and Scott looked back, furrowing his brow. “I’ve lost it,” he elaborated while he kept yelling at himself in his head. He had left.  _everything_. In. the car. Even his laptop. That thing was his  _life!_

He plopped down next to Scott on the couch, hefting his eyes on the digital clock of the TV.

Three in the fucking morning.

“Where?” Scott asked and it was more than one word, more than one nonsensical question. It was ‘where have you been’ and ‘who have you been with’ and ‘what are you up to’ and ‘why aren’t you talking to me anymore’ and ‘why don’t you trust me with your problem’ and ‘what is going on with you’ and ‘please, Stiles, just tell me’.

Stiles opened his mouth, but closed it again without uttering a single thing. Scott looked helpless and desperate but then clenched his jaw before he tore his gaze away.

They sat in silence.

Eventually Scott stood up, pulled Stiles along with a hand under his armpit, pushed him wordlessly up the stairs and into Stiles’ room, manhandling him down onto the bed. He just stupidly followed every wordless command, struggled out of his jeans before Scott settled on the bed next to him. There was a lump in his throat at the sight of the other boy watching him, a mixture of anger and fondness and sadness reflecting in his brown goddamn puppy dog eyes.

He had to look away.

Scott just pulled him closer, rolled to his side and put his head on Stiles’ shoulder, throwing a leg over Stiles’. It was uncomfortable and hot and he kind of loved it. Scott just wrapped his arm tighter over his stomach. As if he was afraid Stiles would leave the moment he loosened the embrace.

He should complain, but he didn’t.

Nice things were never his to have, so he would just accept Scott’s silent protectiveness, bask in it for a while, pretending this was for him and not for Stiles.

“By the way,” Scott mumbled on the verge of falling asleep after a few moments of quiet breathing.

“Yeah?”

“No homo.”

He snorted in amusement, shaking his head. “Whatever lets you sleep at night,” he replied, and frowned at his words, but Scott just smiled lazily against his shoulder, tugging him closer still.

* * *

They both groaned when the alarm went off relentlessly. Stiles elbowed Scott somewhere in the chest area when he bent over to throw it against the wall or take some other equally drastic measure but Scott reached it before he could and shut it up. He just dropped down again, cheek pressed against the other boys’ stomach, snuggling in a little closer. Because warm. And comfortable. And good. So, so good.

He should feel guilty. He really should. For imprisoning Stiles in his own body and taking these moments away from him but right now, letting Stiles out even once could possibly mean fatal death.

Was what he kept telling himself, but he knew he would have to release him. Sooner or later. After the full moon he would let Stiles go. When Peter’s chance to return to life was zilch, when Derek was… when he was either dead or gone, because there was no in-between anymore. Stiles wasn’t safe with Derek around.

“You’re heavy,” Scott mumbled after a while, shoving against his shoulder without any real pressure.

“Yeah, yeah,” he replied, pushing himself up. He had to go to the bathroom anyway. He climbed out of the bed, deliberately rolling over Scott and kneeing him in the stomach before he left the room. The second he saw Stiles’ body in the mirror he almost shrieked. He looked like  _shit_. He was pale and had dark circles under his eyes and there was no amount of make-up in the world that could hide those panda eyes. And then he noticed the dark-red flakes on the side of his neck and his collar and  _fuck_.

He pulled his shirt over his head, stumbled closer to the mirror and craned his neck.

It looked horrible. There was no way in hell he could hide that. Hell, he was lucky Scott hadn’t seen it already. Granted, it had been dark and he had been sleepy but he would wake up sooner or later and yeah, he didn’t exactly have the kind of hair to hide the neck.

And it looked gross. The wound on his shoulder from Peter had been a scratch compared to the four punctured holes, flesh torn at the side, swollen an angry red, puckered around the edges and a sharp contrast against his pale skin.

“No, fuck, no,” he groaned, bracing his body with both hands on the sink. He was either going to come up with a really good explanation or a way to hide it. First instinct was a scarf but Stiles had never worn a scarf and looked stupid with accessories anyway. Extensions for his hair were a definite no. A turtleneck collar was just too much. He wasn’t even sure Stiles  _owned_  a turtle neck collar.

There was the hoodie though.

God, he would look like a junkie.

Maybe that was a good thing. He could claim hangover. Or something. He looked at the reflection in the mirror again, before he went to take a cold shower. Leaning his head back to let the water prickle on his skin, before he started to work on his nape, hissing when the water touched the sensitive skin for the first time.

When he left the shower Scott was brushing his teeth at the sink, blinking at him blearily as Stiles wrapped his towel tighter around the neck.

“I hope you didn’t pee in the shower again,” Scott mumbled around the tooth brush.

“That was  _one time_ , Scott!” he huffed, rolling his eyes. “I was  _seven_ , dude.”

“Better safe than sorry,” the other grinned, before he turned back to the sink.

Back in his room, Stiles dressed as fast as humanly possible, clothes sticking uncomfortably to his still damp skin. He tugged and pulled at the fabric of the hood, pushing it in every direction to see how much it hid the scars. It was surprisingly easier than he had expected. After the dried blood was washed away and the water had cooled his skin the holes weren’t some angry gashes anymore; still disgusting because he swore they were discharging pus which was just ewww.

Scott was still in the bathroom when he skidded down to the kitchen, making crappy almost burnt toast because Stiles couldn’t cook for the life of him.

“We’re going to school,” Scott decided the second he entered the kitchen, before he dropped down onto a chair. Stiles stopped mid-movement; buttering the toast, and nodded because that was the only reason either of them would even get up in the morning. “And then we are going home. My home,” Scott amended. “We will play video games, do our homework, bitch about who is going to make dinner and we both know it won’t be  _you_  in the end and you  _will_  sleep over.”

He nodded again, dumbfounded.

Scott looked at him for a long moment then let his eyes drift around the kitchen, lingering on the destroyed paint job on the door frames to the back porch. “Good,” was all he said before he turned back.

They ate in silence.

School was a tricky matter, though, because Stiles’ stuff was still in Derek’s car. He had dug out a messenger bag from the depths of his closet, threw some pens and a notebook in there. It should do for the day and then he would have to go and buy everything else he needed.

At least the books were in the locker. Because Stiles was a lazy shit.

That was, if he hadn’t sold them already.

He punched once against the top left edge of the locker door before he could open it and then jumped back, smacking right into some girl who dropped her books to the ground.

She muttered asshole under her breath when he made no move to help her. He didn’t care. His eyes were firmly fixed on the backpack stuffed in there, together with his laptop. His body started to shake before he could prevent it, the wounds suddenly burning with a fervency unlike before. His hands snatched up to his nape, hidden behind the hood. He didn’t look around. If Derek was still there, which he doubted, he wouldn’t show himself.

He willed his hands to stop, suppressed the urge to kick against the locker then yanked the bag out. The phone was still there, battery running low but otherwise unharmed. The mountain ash bag was still there too.

He scowled at the backpack for a moment, before he pushed the messenger bag into the locker, pulled his chemistry book out and slammed the door shut. A few minutes went by as he worked on carefully rebuilding his mask, trying to get the hunted look out of his eyes; he took a few calming breaths before he finally entered the classroom, where he could spot Scott chatting amicably to Allison. They looked up when he entered. Allison gave him a sweet smile and he kind of hated her a little less at the moment.

Stiles had some elaborate feelings towards the girl and he could feel them even through his slumber, which made it all the more notable.

It was plain as day that Scott had left the seat next to him open for Stiles, while sitting in front of his sort off not officially but totally girlfriend.

He sat down next to Scott and reminded himself to act as Stilesque as he could in his current mood. Which was pretty low in the happy-buzz department Stiles usually was parked in. He ignored Harris harassing him for the hood until the man eventually gave in with one last snide remark on his _lack of parental upbringing._ Stiles had almost thrown a book at the teacher’s head when he turned around to write something on the board.

Fucking asshole.

He continued to pretend listening to Harris’ lecture as he planned his new runes, scribbling notes on small squared paper, biting the end of his pencil in concentration every now and again, hoping the drafts looked more like doodles than anything deliberate to the untrained eye, while he simultaneously constructed a battle plan.

Or something.

He wasn’t going to let Stiles out until after he had dealt with Derek. That was for sure. He was going to lock him up and throw away the key and Stiles was going to be fucking thankful for that instead of hyperventilating himself into a panic attack as soon as he realized he had missed a whole fucking week – or maybe longer.

He wasn’t going to joke around, to entertain anyone. He would kick Jackson’s ass if the jock so much as dared to breathe down his neck. He had done it before; it shouldn’t even be that surprising. His temperament was loose right now and he was just itching to do  _something_.

Harris glared at him as he kept absentmindedly tapping his pen against the table surface, lost in thought. Stiles just glared right back as soon as he realized it. Until Scott bumped him with an elbow. The boy gave one final, firm tap with the pen before he threw it, loudly, on the table, leaning back and crossing his arms in front of his chest. Harris wrinkled his nose in disgust before he eventually turned away.

“Something happened?” Scott whispered after a moment, leaning almost flat on the table as if that would help to drown his voice. Actually, he had expected that line of conversation at the morning table. Leave it to Scott to choose chemistry class. Where he couldn’t spin on his heel and run away.

“No,” he offered. Scott’s face fell a little. He huffed out a snort. “Just had a bad day. Yesterday I mean.”

Scott’s eyes flickered to his neck and, oh, okay, so he  _had_  noticed. Maybe he had seen something in the darkness, or before he had dragged him to bed or when he had left the bathroom or—

“Are you hiding a hickey?” Scott suddenly asked unabashed and—

“ _What?_ ”

“Anything you would like to share, Mister Stilinski?” Harris asked with the same disinterested voice and bored demeanor he brought to school everyday. Like he was  _forced_  to teach chemistry.

“No, not really,” he replied, playing with the strings of his hood in fake contemplation. Harris was about to make them change seats, he could just smell it, but the teacher turned away, probably thinking about a way to torture Stiles with more than just Scott-withdrawal or public embarrassment. “I’m not hiding a hickey,” he hissed as soon as Harris was back to ignoring them.

“You’re not?”

“ _No!_ Oh my God, Scott, how would I even get a hickey to begin with?” Scott opened his mouth as if to reply, but he barreled right through it. “It’s actually an allergic reaction.” Scott furrowed his brow in disbelief. “To your washing powder. In the sheets.” He added. If he was forced to play the guilt card to get Scott off his back, so be it. “It’s kind of disgusting and I wasn’t going to say anything but I’ve got rashes all over my body. It itches. Badly.”

Scott still looked doubtful but there was a spark of something else in his features now. Like he was mulling the words over until something like guilt eventually appeared somewhere between skepticism. Oh, he was so going to burn in the lowest layer of hell forever and ever.

Scott was internally debating something, but whatever conclusion he had drawn, resulted in him backing off. “Okay. Allergic reaction. Alright, if you say so.” He wasn’t sure if an ‘if you say so’ should sound so accusing but he let it slip. “But don’t think I haven’t noticed that you suddenly have your phone back.”

“It was in my locker,” he said. “Where I lost it.” Scott arched an eyebrow. “Apparently,” he added for good measure, then he just turned away and decided to ignore the rest of the world.

Scott didn’t try to question him again and the school went by in a hazy blur. The other students avoided him more than ever and even Jackson ignored Stiles instead of shouldering him into a wall or sneering at him. He must have given off some pretty bad vibes if even Danny chose to nod faintly at him from a wide distance before following Jackson to Lacrosse training.

It probably helped that he looked like shit, snapped at everyone who so much as  _looked_  at him the wrong way, while Scott and Allison followed on his heels. Like goddamn ducklings.

Which was even  _worse_ because no matter how much he ignored them or acted like a piece of crap to get them off his back, Allison just smiled at him tentatively and Scott set his jaw in stubborn defiance.

Scott had told her. And she was obviously trying to be understanding. Fuck. Scott was screwed. And Stiles was screwed. Because it meant that Allison was sort of perfect in a gross way and that Stiles would lose his best friend to the brunette girl and he could already feel the pang of jealousy eating him up the second he had actual time to think about that.

Luckily, Stiles had been distracted the last few weeks. Unfortunately, it would eventually end and Allison would still be there, probably as an even bigger presence in Scott’s life.

Yippee yeah, he thought enthusiastically.

After school Scott ushered him to his jeep, while Stiles searched out a dark hunching figure from somewhere in the shadows. There was nothing. Safely seated in his jeep he continued to look out for any signs of a black Camaro or Derek or a very large dog but he saw neither. When he pulled up in front of his house he was keyed up, his legs jittery and his fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

“Have to get some things,” he mumbled in way of explaining, about to climb out of the car when Scott hooked one finger behind the hood. “Dude, stop,” he complained with more aggravation than was probably necessary, then regretted his tone when Scott flinched at it like he was getting burned. “I mean, it’s sensitive,” he added awkwardly. He hesitated for a moment before he just left the car. Scott didn’t make a move to follow him.

“You know, you don’t have to wait here,” he said. Scott just shrugged. He wasn’t going to press, so he just turned on his heels and walked up to the porch, straight into the hobby room. Stiles pulled ‘Gardening for Dummies’ aka ‘Mother’s Rune Collection’ and the ‘DIY: Guide for Backyard Builders’ aka ‘Herbs that might help you kill evil monsters’ out of the shelf, threw them in his backpack and then headed out to the green house.

At the end was a small rotten wooden cupboard he used to store flowerpots and cord yarn, and in the very back some jars with dried roots and leaves.

“I thought your father takes care of them,” Scott suddenly said from behind him. He flipped around, his heart jumping to his throat. Shit. He was really losing it. He didn’t even hear a human approach. “I mean, I always assumed you were lying about that but I never cared because they were your mother’s plants and I kind of understood.”

“Yeah, of course,” he agreed, to what, he wasn’t even sure. He hesitated for a moment before he pulled the jars with mandrake and mistletoe out from between the flowerpots.

“What are these?” Stiles snapped his head around, watching Scott bending down, admiring the star-shaped flowers at the front of the green house, mouth open in awe.

“Yellow comets,” he answered. “Also known as Blazing Stars or Moonflowers.”

Scott hummed in understanding. “I think you’re doing a great job,” the brunette suddenly said with a tight smile. Stiles nodded absently and pulled some pieces of the dried brown root and the green leaves of the mistletoe out of the jars, wrapping them in folio before he pushed them into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie. “It’s not emasculating or anything. If you thought that. You don’t have to lie about doing this because you’re afraid I would laugh. Or whatever your reason is.”

“Thanks,” he replied dryly. “But I’ll still keep on pretending that neither of us knows what you’re talking about if you ever mention it.”

Because Stiles couldn’t take care of a  _cactus_ , let alone a whole garden. Plants weren’t demanding, didn’t remind him to feed them, jumping on his lap for attention. Stiles could handle moving living things, not beings without a voice.

“And we’ll both know you do,” Scott remarked smugly.

Not, he mentally added on Stiles’ behalf, shifting the flower pots around some more. Scott hummed again, leaned back and took another look around. “I’m not really angry at you,” he suddenly changed the subject. “More like… sad. Disappointed? I wished you’d tell us more.”

He bit his tongue because, right, he knew how that had always turned out. It usually ended in bi-weekly sessions with Mrs. Cartridge for at least two months. And in one particular bad case, had led to a two-week long stay in Eichen House where he had been sedated beyond torpidity. His memories about that time were flimsy at best too.

“Trust us more. Tell us what you’re doing when you sneak out.”

“You noticed,” he said flatly because of course Stiles had probably sneaked out with the grace of a flailing elephant.

“Well duh,” Scott replied, shrugging.

Stiles stood up, brushed the dust from his jeans.

“There’s nothing, really,” he offered. Scott rolled his eyes, but didn’t comment on the obvious lie, and instead took the watering can and went to the porch to fill it with water.

For a moment he regarded Scott with disbelief and awe, because seriously, were they going to do that? When the floppy haired boy returned, giving him a playful smile he realized that yep, they were. He snorted, then told Scott to water around the plants, not on the plants, while he got the rake out to aerate the soil.

They worked in silence.

It was strange. And cramped. He wasn’t used to sharing the space in the green house with someone else and he kept tripping over Scott who had a talent for always being in his way. They gave up somewhere around the fifth time Stiles had stabbed Scott in the back with the handle of the rake.

They headed back to the house. Stiles sent Scott to the car, while he headed upstairs to pack some more shirts. When he was sure his friend wasn’t in the house anymore, he slipped into his dad’s room and retrieved his emergency phone.

It had one unread message.

Surprised, he opened it, and gritted his teeth.

**Will be there asap. Don’t talk to** **ANYONE.**

**Better pray I’m not dead,**  he replied, and then threw the phone on the bed before he left the room. When he climbed back into the jeep, he knew that he won’t be able to do anything for the next days, because Scott was going to keep a watchful eye on him and so would Melissa.

This was going to suck.

Big time.

* * *

“Is this the talk where you finally confess that you are a werewolf?” Crazy Millie asked after picking up the phone. Without greeting. Right to the point.

Derek blinked. Blinked some more. Then stared at the phone in his hand in irritation. “What?” he asked back. There was an amused chuckle on the other end as she shuffled some papers around on her table.

“So, it’s the talk where you want my help pretending you are not a werewolf, then?”

Derek let his head drop into his hand as he sat cross legged on the porch stairs. “No. I’m a werewolf.” He admitted because what use was lying, anyway? She had probably known the second he had walked into his job interview almost two years ago, applying for the part time job with a fake smile and a Pecksniffian attitude.

“And you need my help.” It wasn’t a question.

He curled his lips in disgust. “Yes.”

“I don’t possess what you need.”

Derek opened his mouth, and closed it again. He had always suspected something more was going on with Crazy Millie, which was why he had thought about her when Peter had mentioned the ritual needed someone with a ‘spark’, not necessarily Stiles. Now he wondered how much she knew. About him and his family and what he was doing here.

“I need someone with a spark,” he replied flatly.

“I know. And I do not have that spark,” she explained. Derek frowned at the ground. That went absolutely nowhere then. Great. He was just about to tell her bye and thanks for nothing, when she cleared her throat. “There is something I can do for you, though.”

Derek furrowed his brows. And then realized that she couldn’t see them. “What?”

“Around you there are…,” she paused for a moment, “five. No… seven.”

“Seven?”

“With a spark.”

Derek’s eyes widened. He grabbed the phone so tight he thought he was going to break the shell. If she told him now there was something like a phone book for the supernaturally inclined, he would throw his mobile against the wall.

“I can feel them,” she elaborated, slowly, like she was waiting for him to doubt her.

“Who are they?” Derek asked after a pause.

It must have been enough reassurance. She breathed a sigh in relief. A second later Derek already regretted asking.

“One is floating with the stars. A little girl.” A big ‘no’ popped up in Derek’s head at the words. For several different reasons. And it should be alarming that his first argument against the kid wasn’t its well-being, the thought that an experience like resurrecting a dead man was most likely too dangerous and/or too traumatizing for a little kid. No, it was about what it did to Derek’s reputation if someone saw him with her.

Derek shook his head.

He had to focus.

“Another girl, teenager, calling home. Then there’s an old man… woman. Both.”

“Both?”

“Twins,” she clarified. And that sounded easy. That sounded feasible. It shouldn’t be too much trouble to find a pair of old twins in this town. “In one body.”

_Of course._

“Then there is, oh! What a surprise. A wailing woman.” She sounded excited. “But she is sleeping. Her powers are dormant. It would need a push to wake her up. She’s… a pretty one. Smart. Powerful. An old soul in a teenage body.”

Derek decided he liked Crazy Millie better when she wasn’t trying to help him. She made less sense than usual. When he had asked her about who the people with the sparks were he had expected names. Or pictures. A photo fit maybe. Not more cryptic messages. He already had enough of them.

“The other two are … trained and restrained, weak compared to the others, but they know. About everything. They wouldn’t help you.”

This seriously did not help.

At all.

“And there’s … Orthrus. A boy… unsettled, inconsistent, disturbed—”

“Stiles,” Derek interrupted, because who else could she talk about.

“Stiles,” she repeated, hissing the consonant in an unsettling manner. Like a snake. “But not Stiles.” She chuckled to herself. Derek didn’t even get the joke. “He’s interesting. Has potential. A lot. You should be careful. Don’t make him angry.”

Too late for that, the werewolf thought bitterly.

“It’s him. Maybe the wailing woman. But he has a connection.”

“How do I find her. The wailing woman.”

Crazy Millie tsked at him. Derek could practically see an index finger wiggling in front of his face. “If you can’t work for it, you don’t deserve it, Derek.”

“I can hardly stalk every female in town,” Derek growled and then cringed at his own words.

“I advise you not to at least,” she said. “However, Derek; birds of a feather flock together.”

That was… extremely unhelpful.

“Thanks,” he just said. He was sure his sour note conveyed his displeasure. However she had given him more than he had expected. Derek had expected her to hang up on him, deny that she had any kind of gift. “Thanks,” he said again, softer this time, maybe more earnest.

“Derek, whatever it is you are trying to do,” she hesitated and Derek was surprised she didn’t know. He wasn’t sure what her ‘powers’ were exactly. Just that she was a human with something extra. “Don’t do it.”

Derek remained silent. Eventually she hang up with an annoyed sigh.

He dropped his hand to the side, keeping his forehead pressed into his free hand.

‘Don’t do it’ wasn’t an option. He had robbed his uncle from one life, he wouldn’t deny him a chance to come back and catch up on what he had missed the last six years. But Derek had never stopped to think if Peter wanted to come back to this though; if he wanted to come back to nothing, to a dead family, to a burned down house with only a fucked up nephew as the last remaining living relative, who couldn’t even find the car keys in a small apartment, let alone the hunter who had killed the last of his family in a town like Beacon Hills.

But if Peter didn’t want to return he would have said so.

Strangely, Derek had to fight down his instincts on this matter: They told him to go away. To leave it all behind and never return. To let go, because vengeance didn’t help anyone.

He wished Laura was there. Wished there was someone who could tell him what the right thing was because somehow, along the way, black and white had started to blend and mix in a tortuous grey tangle.

His options were limited.

There were only three days left to the full moon. And he could either waste those days convincing Stiles to help him or look for a wailing woman in a teenager’s body.

Or turn around and walk away.

His eyes drifted to the grave of his uncle.

Derek had stopped asking obvious questions, had stopped trying to figure everything out; had resigned to the fact that someone was playing him like a fool, making a complete joke of him. It wasn’t the first time. His life was a joke anyway.

However, if there had been something he could have always relied on, it had been his family. And even though Peter had always been odd and irritating and frustratingly vague they could always rely on his help, could rely on him doing the right thing in the end no matter his personal dispute with his sister.

So he wasn’t going to doubt his uncle for something a crazy boy had told him.

His eyes flickered over to where Laura’s grave had been.

The ritual sounded … firm, as far as old Indian rituals could. Though he would never find out whether it really worked if he wouldn’t try and he was willing to take his chances. Even if it meant pissing off a sixteen year old druid-witch-hybrid thing with apparently ‘great potential’, who shouldn’t be ‘angered’.

As far as Derek’s social skills went he knew he couldn’t approach Stiles. The boy was either going to come to him or this would never happen willingly on the teenager’s accord. Derek doubted Stiles would even so much as look at him, remembering the boy in his car terrified and angry, before he fled without looking back. No. Stiles wasn’t going to help him. So Derek had to come up with an idea to lure him in, and make him do it instead.

He needed to find the trap Peter had spoken of. Needed to find a rune to channel Stiles’ energy or whatever it was that jump started the whole resurgence act. It sounded crazy even to Derek’s ears. It really wasn’t a mystery why Stiles wouldn’t do it, apart from the obvious fact that Derek had stuck his claws in Stiles’ flesh. Let alone the fact that Derek wasn’t sure if the boy really wouldn’t come to harm.

It was an unlikely prospect because Derek was going to force him. And if he could read Stiles after about a month of semi constant exposure, he knew the boy would fight back. With nails. And teeth. And Derek wasn’t exactly known for his art of persuasion.

With a heavy sigh Derek got up from the steps, pushing his steel-toed boots into the ground, flexing his toes against the hard surface, before he lifted his head.

He had made the decision to get Peter back no matter what.

Whatever happened after that, he would just deal with the consequences.

Sitting idly around the churned remains of childhood was not an option. He had to find that shop in Sacramento, the runes. And he should at least attempt to find out who the other spark could be.

A girl. A teenager. And apparently someone who Stiles was drawn to. Or maybe Derek was drawn to. Magical beings drawn to each other. This should prove easy considering that Derek wasn’t attracted to anyone anymore and the only females Stiles had any kind of regular interaction with were his adoptive mother, who obviously was not a teenager, and neither were the women from the sheriff department; which left only Lydia, High School Prom Queen in the making and everyone’s crush.

Derek had observed Stiles for a long time now, had listened to him talking about the girl; had noticed how far the boy was willing to go to convey his feelings to her. Lydia however had never shown any kind of interest, never even spared Stiles a second glance.

Derek assumed the flocking together should be some kind of mutual thing.

But there had been one girl, Derek recalled, that had followed Stiles’ every move with her eyes; hidden behind a book, pretending to read. Who had flinched and grown angry whenever someone around her badmouthed the boy at whatever involuntary cue Stiles had given the general student body to talk about him again.

The girl was quiet and shy and Derek wasn’t even sure if Stiles was aware of  _her_  existence. Maybe the girl was drawn to Stiles because he had the spark but Stiles on the other hand didn’t even acknowledge her presence because  _her_  spark was dormant?

Or maybe Millie had literally meant a wailing woman. Maybe it was code for some mystical creature. Like a banshee. Or a siren.

He hoped it wasn’t a banshee. Or a siren.

Still, if he had to bet on any teenage girl in Beacon Hills, he’d take his chances with those two.

And maybe he should.

Just that he couldn’t just walk up to them, could… flirt his way in. Even if someone would hook with him solely for his face, he looked like a hobo and dragging them into the preserve was probably screaming psychotic mass murderer.

Derek still went to school and watched Lydia Martin for half a day. He thought his brain would melt at the conversations she was having with her boyfriend or school friends. After a few hours Derek knew more about Ryan Gosling than he ever wanted to know, neglecting the fact that he didn’t even knew who that guy was or what he looked like – according to sixteen year old girls: utterly handsome.

She was smart, but acted stupid, had a sharp, ruthless edge to her demeanor. Derek couldn’t make sense of her. However she didn’t smell strange, he couldn’t feel anything mystical or familiar around her, so he spent the last half of the day following the blonde girl.

From all the high schools kids around she was one of the quietest, never raising her hand in class, always reading a book, chancing glances at Stiles if he was around, otherwise talking to someone she shared lunch with, a tall boy. Half as quiet but double the stoic. It was somewhat relaxing for Derek’s brain.

Yet, she did smell wrong.

He hadn’t been sure why until he witnessed one of her seizures. She had been in town, buying several books from the local bookstore when she started to act strange, slightly panicked, like she realized something no one else did. She hurried out of the store, and vanished in the next alley, her body hidden behind a dumpster and trembling so hard Derek could hear her bones aching.

Derek wasn’t sure what was going on, but when he could hear her strangled breath and groans he followed her into the alley, watching her spasm on the ground, hands bent in at awkward angle and body rigid in convulsion.

And that, that right there.

That was Derek out of his depth.

He had never dealt well with sickness. Whenever Eric had caught the flu and sneezed Derek had left the room just to get away from him. Sickness made a human weak and brought him in danger of dying and Derek couldn’t stand that.

For a split second he thought about just going away. Instead his feet led him to the girl and he bent down next to her, prying her arms apart and unclenching her fingers, nails digging into the skin making the palms bleed. He wasn’t sure if what he did was right, or if it made things worse, because she convulsed and he could smell blood, her eyes darting around without focus.

It was absurdly quiet considering the circumstances.

Derek put his hand to her neck, wanted to take her pain, like he had done with Stiles a day ago, but nothing happened. He blinked; there was nothing to take away. Derek stepped back, helplessly looking down at her. When her head hit the asphalt several times he removed his jacket, bedding her head on it and then stepped back again.

What felt like an eternity later, but was probably ten minutes or so, her body slowly eased up and she blinked her eyes open.

Derek was gone before she could catch sight of him.

He left the alley in hurried steps and hoped nobody had witnessed him leaving. Then he listened to her breath, slow but steady, to make sure she was alright. It took several minutes before she was strong enough to get up; tiny sobs under her breath, the sounds of clothes getting straightened out before she emerged from the alley. Hopefully nobody would notice  _her_  coming out with shaggy hair and clothes still slightly askew and… wearing his jacket. Really, he should have thought about it before going ahead and just doing something like that.

He wasn’t arrested that day so he hopefully was safe to assume that no one had seen him and Erica in the alley. 

Wailing woman, Derek repeated in his head.

It was probably Erica.

A few hours later he called Crazy Millie, asking her what kind of push someone might need for a spark to ignite.

It turned out that the most efficient but not entirely most pleasant way was some kind of trauma; a near death situation; something that sparked a natural defense mechanism in everything not quite human. However Millie told him in no uncertain terms that if he dared to do something like that to a teenage girl, or boy for that matter, she would personally come down to Beacon Hills - wherever that actually was - and stuff his mouth with a sock drenched in wolfsbane.

She firmly told him she wasn’t joking.

It hadn’t sounded like she was.

And anyway, if near death situations or trauma actually worked it would have done something to Erica a long time ago because Derek doubted that those seizures were in any way pleasant. He had dismissed Erica as a choice. Even if she was the one with the spark Derek wasn’t going to inflict anything on an innocent by-stander if he could just use Stiles.

Though Derek would have to make sure that Stiles wouldn’t have the chance to get close to him; he would have to keep the boy as far away, especially after he had found the bag of mountain ash in his backpack before returning it to the boy, keeping all research Stiles had collected from Jennifer’s room to himself.

He wasn’t that stupid, actually.

* * *

Scott cornered him that night.

Without preamble he just pushed Derek against the shoulder, and then stumbled back when Derek wouldn’t budge. However, the angry glare didn’t leave his face. If at all it intensified.

“What did you do?” he asked in a low voice, eyes darting around before he took one step closer. “He was with you, wasn’t he?  _What did you do to him?_ ”

Derek contemplated running away.

From a sixteen year old boy.

Who was smaller.

And weaker.

And had asthma.

“Got into a fight.” The half-lie left his mouth without permission. He growled at himself, and brushed past the teenager. How did Scott even manage to find him? That boy had either the best luck or some kind of inhuman GPS detector in his brain.

He was in a freaking laundromat. For the first time since he had come to Beacon Hills. And only because he needed something to do while he waited for the next day to drive up to Sacramento.

Seriously, how did Scott find him?

“About what?” Scott asked and followed him on his heel to the dryer. Derek thought this place was highly inappropriate for a talk like that, especially since he couldn’t leave without his clothes. Or maybe he could. There were only rotten shirts with holes and torn jeans in there anyway. No one would steal something like that.

“Nothing.”

“Oh right. A ‘nothing-fight’.” Scott made air quotes. “About what? Jelly?”

Derek didn’t even stop to think about why they would fight about  _jelly._  Scott was a lot like Stiles in some aspects so they probably shared some character traits. Not making sense being one of them. Then again, Stiles had gotten Derek officially arrested over marshmallows, so maybe jelly was just short down the ladder.

“Jelly,” Derek repeated, glanced at the timer of the dryer. Half an hour. He’d rather wear damp clothes than prolong this conversation.

“Not the point,” Scott hissed. “Did you do this?” Derek watched his hand flying up to his nape. “He tried to hide it but I have  _eyes_ , okay?”

Screw this.

He was going to come back later for his clothes.

“Hey, Derek! Talk to me, for God’s sake! Was it consensual?” Scott yelled after him as he shouldered his way past a burly guy who just entered the laundromat on his way out. “If I find out you forced him—” Derek fumed, internally. What did Scott even mean with consent? How consensual could digging your claws into another person’s body be anyway? Unless he didn’t think it was—no, not going there.

He waited for an hour in the small park, glaring at the joggers who made a wide berth around him before he returned to the laundromat to get his clothes out. They were gone and a note stuck to the dryer, telling him his clothes were being held hostage. If he wanted them back, he knew who to call.

Derek crumpled the note and resisted the urge to hunt Scott down and tear him limb from limb.

* * *

Rubik’s Cube wasn’t easy to track down. It changed places on a bi-annual basis and he was sure there were concealing spells hiding the location thoroughly. Eventually he more or less tripped over it as he heedlessly walked around Colonial Heights for a few hours. Derek was sure he had passed that area four or five times without noticing it, which just confirmed his theory.

By the time he entered the shop, he was majorly pissed off but knew better than to say anything. Instead he let his eyes roam over the shelves, taking in the scent of sandalwood and incense that made his eyes water and his nose twitch. There was something buzzing under the floor but when he looked down there was nothing. The man at the counter looked up from whatever he was doing when Derek didn’t move for several seconds. Before he could even form a question, the man smirked knowingly and pointed to a shelf in the corner of the room and bowed his head back down again.

From what Derek could see this was the real deal. There was a lot of disturbing things on the other shelves and he only glanced at them before he approached the shelf he had been directed to.

It was about magic.

Derek really started to hate it.

There were a couple of books on runes, a whole volume about channeling power until Derek found an easy instruction to a rune that fit his purposes – more or less – and didn’t warrant any form of spark or magical affinity. It was simple, it was intuitive – considering it almost only consisted of lines fading to the place the magic was supposed to channel to. When he walked up to the guy behind the counter to ask for paper and a pen he just pointed to the copy machine without a word. Derek raised his eyebrows and the man eventually looked up, a flat smile on his lips as he pointed to his throat.

There was a large scar, jagged and nasty and speaking of a wound so severe not even a werewolf should be able to survive that.

Derek nodded his thanks and went to copy the pages of the book. When he returned to the counter he pulled out his wallet to pay but the man just waved him off, putting his index fingers to the lips.

Derek had avoided contact to people, and his usually scolding face earned him either fear or women shamelessly hitting on him. However, this last month he met… strange people. People who treated him almost human-like. It made Derek uncomfortable. He wasn’t sure if the air around him had changed. Maybe he looked as messed up on the outside as he felt on the inside now. Maybe it instilled pity.

Before Derek could move away, the man lifted his hand, took a clean sheet of paper and started to draw something he could vaguely recognize as a trap. It had what Stiles had referred to as the basics, but the rest looked different, less elaborate, easier.

Rubik pushed the paper at him, and waved him off.

Derek took the copies, put the books away and left the bookstore in search of the Camaro he had left… somewhere.

* * *

He wasn’t exactly averse to the break he got.

The wound in his nape was still disgusting but better after he had tried boiling Yellow Monkshood in water and used the greenish liquid to clean the wound. He didn’t poison himself, which was great on so many levels but during the first hour of the healing process he  _wished_  he was dead because it had hurt like a bitch. When Scott returned from his part time job and saw him sprawled on his bed, he claimed a very bad migraine.

Still, it had done its job.

Whatever had been tugging at his wards had faded and it was only a simple bruise now. A bruise with some punctured, gaping holes, but they were closing up.

Sometimes he couldn’t help touching the spot, letting the anger wash over him for a few moments.

Derek left him alone.

Which was smart.

He assumed the werewolf was just waiting for the full moon, before acting out on anything. No sense in getting into a confrontation too early.

It irked him. He was tense. And jittery. Which led to weaving talismans in the middle of the night. With engraved bolt nuts. And cotton threads. Which he had dipped in a deeply dark red tincture. Made of mandrake, hazel, agrimony, nettle and bloodroot. And dried them in the sun.

Yes, he might have gone overboard and it wasn’t only dangerous to supernatural things anymore because the mixture was a deadly poison now and he really needed to find a safe way to get rid of it before someone assumed it was a tasty drink.

He wasn’t going to leave anything to chance.

Not this time.

He felt like a fucking witch.

A domestic  _housewitch_.

Getting ready for battle.

He dropped his hands into his lap, looking around the room, listening to the dulled music from Scott’s room where he knew he was making out with his still not official girlfriend while Stiles sat on his desk.

Braiding an arm-wrist talisman.

He heaved a deep sigh.

He really didn’t know what he was going to do. What he should be doing. The only thing that kept him from running through the streets screaming bloody werewolf hoping someone would react and reveal them as hunters was his aunt’s message. Yet he still thought he should look for clues. Should tell the hunters about Derek. Let them handle everything.

Yet, she explicitly told him to avoid contact with  _anyone_  and wait for her arrival, which should be shortly.

Shortly could be anything from tomorrow to next month.

Kate had a rather diverse interpretation of the word ‘shortly’.

With a frustrated sigh, he continued to aggressively braid the wristband one bolt nut at a time, he thought about using Asafetida as well, but he doubted Melissa was going to wear something that smelled like washed rind cheese. And her not wearing the arm-wrist was kind of defeating the purpose.

Maybe he should have added some water lilies—and no, he was not going there. If anything he was a druid. A druid didn’t care about aromatic odor. No. Witches did that. Probably. He wouldn’t know, but he could picture them being all picky about glamour and style. Druids not so much.

So anyway, Derek had not shown up.

At least not vision wise.

And tomorrow was the full moon.

At least Scott had finally calmed down again around him. The most curious thing happening had been Scott leaving to buy milk and returning with a plastic bag full of clothes and no milk in sight.

Melissa kept checking up on him via phone, nagged him into arranging another extracurricular meeting with Mrs Cartridge who started probing and he started evading and somehow he had made it through the therapy session without it actually looking like he was stalling.

Mrs Cartridge knew anyway.

He wondered if he should give the McCalls an award for minimal prying. They had reason enough but they simply watched over Stiles. Which was nice. It made him feel less alone.

Though as calm as it was, there was no illusion that this was only the calm before the storm.

***

Doctor Deaton asked about Stiles.

Scott thought his heart would stop.

Deaton never asked personal questions. And most of all Deaton didn’t ask about  _Stiles_. Scott was pretty sure the vet was trying to forget the fact that Stiles even  _existing_. Ever since that awful day his best friend had picked him up for the first and last time.

Scott had never seen his boss angry before. Not even when he had accidentally forgotten to lock some of the cages and the dogs that had gotten out had peed everywhere and torn clothes and bandages from the shelves and decimated the dog food in one night.

Actually. Scott hadn’t seen Deaton angry that very day he had thrown Stiles out of the clinic, but his posture was a little tenser than usual and the look in his eyes had been intense and hard instead of glassy and preoccupied like he had just smoked a pound of pot, as he let Scott know that his friend wasn’t welcomed anymore.

Deaton didn’t tell him what had happened and Stiles claimed he had no idea what he had done to offend Scott’s boss and Scott had been worried that he was getting fired just a month after he started because he associated with Stiles but Deaton didn’t fire him and Deaton never asked him about Stiles and Scott never mentioned Stiles.

It was like an unspoken agreement.

A week later, Granny Gusta, who had been in the lobby of the animal clinic the day Stiles had been asked to leave and never come back, told Scott what had lead to Deaton’s iron-strong string of patience snapping when they met in the grocery store by chance. It took all of Scott’s persuasion skills to convince Deaton – and Granny Gusta – that Stiles was, in fact, not a crazy psychopathic animal abuser and only had an unhealthy obsession with the horrible.

God, who even  _asked_  people stuff like how to chemically burn a dog’s nasal mucous membrane to inflict long term trauma? And on a medical side note, was it true that alkaline solution destroyed eyes more efficiently than acids?

No amount of persuasion could convince anyone that Stiles was not insane and out to plan murder.

So when Scott arrived at work on Wednesday, dropped off by Stiles because he had  _insisted_ , and Deaton looked at him and asked about how his best friend was doing, Scott was convinced he was allowed to suffer from a mild asthma attack coupled with a minor heart attack.

He was too scared to find out what Stiles had done to get Deaton’s attention. The teenager knew there were a lot of rumors going around town by now. But Scott had been convinced that Deaton didn’t pay any mind to them.

Maybe he did.

Stiles was going to be the death of him. Scott just  _knew_  it.

He stammered a ‘good’ and fled into the back room to clean cages. Deaton left him alone to work in solitude and didn’t ask for Stiles again. So Scott had time to reprimand himself for flipping over such a small thing.

It was about an hour before they closed for the day when Deaton found him in the storage room, sorting operation material and checking for any damage while taking notes about what they needed to stock up on.

“Could you do me a favor, Scott?” The boy startled out of his thoughts, then turned around to face his boss. “Roxy isn’t due for a few days but it looks like she is going into labor tonight.” Scott nodded slowly in understanding. “Something urgent came up. I won’t be able to take care of her tonight. Would you mind looking out for her?”

His eyes went wide because that was a) a damn huge responsibility and b) completely impossible because his mother would skin him alive if he stayed out for a whole night. He had school tomorrow. They had a  _test paper_  first period.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Scott stammered, perplexed. “But I don’t think my mother would allow it.”

“I could talk to her for you,” Deaton offered.

The boy blinked, then pulled his phone out of his jeans pocket and dialed his mother’s number. She picked up at the second ring. “Mom, Doctor Deaton would like to talk to you,” he explained, before handing the phone over to his boss. The older man nodded, took the phone and headed out of the room.

He appeared a few minutes later, a distant smile on his lips, before returning the phone.

“Call Stiles and let him know you won’t be coming home,” his mother instructed and then hung up. Whatever superpowers Deaton possessed to get her to agree, Scott wanted them. For himself. He wasn’t going to lie. He wanted them for impure motives.

“Okay,” he answered with an easy smile to Deaton.

“Good,” the vet replied and looked… relieved. Whatever business he had to attend to, it must be something big.

“I just have to cancel a date. Or two,” he said, shaking the hand with the phone and shrugged at the small glance from Deaton. Two dates. One with Allison one with Stiles; because Stiles absolutely, resolutely, stubbornly insisted on them hanging out together that night. After weeks of attempts on Scott and Allison’s part Stiles suddenly acted like it was the best idea since sliced bread, almost driving him up the wall the way he had clung to him the whole day.

Scott, yeah, had trouble understanding Stiles.

He would start with Allison.

Allison was easier to talk to at the moment.

He explained the situation to her and she was all sweet and understanding and yep, Scott had it bad.

Really bad.

“I could stay with you,” she offered before and Scott fell in love a bit more. “I mean, I can’t stay the whole night,” she added quickly. “But I can bring you something to eat. And drink. And I can stay with you till ten or so. If you want me to. Keep you company.”

“I’d like that,” he answered before he even understood the implication.

“I’ll be there in an hour then?”

“Okay.”

Next was Stiles.

Which didn’t go as smoothly.

“You can’t!” his friend almost yelled into the speaker. “You absolutely can’t. I refuse. This. You. No.”

“Stiles,” Scott sighed into the telephone. “It’s one night. I thought you would be glad to have the house for youself.”

“I don’t.”

“Look,” he bit his lip. And nope. He could not invite Stiles to stay over. Nope, never. Allison was pushing his luck. Stiles was... Stiles was breaking it. “I don’t even understand what your problem is, dude,” he finally opted.

“Are you safe?”

“What?”

“Are you safe there? You know what? I’ll drop by. Make sure you’re safe.” Before he could even get a word in, Stiles hung up on him.

Safe from  _what?_

Rabies?

Allison arrived an hour after the phone call with Stiles. Deaton left half an hour later, giving Scott permission to have Allison keeping him company. Stiles showed a few minutes later, looking exhausted and dirty and cursing under his breath before he stormed past Scott without even so much as an hello in their direction.

“Where’s the dog?” he asked.

Scott pointed at the door to the operation room and before he could stop him, he bulldozed into the adjoining room. Not a second later, Allison and Scott could hear growling. They stared at each other, before going in after Stiles.

Roxy was seated in her dog basket, but she was glaring intensely at the brunette boy who held his hands up in surrender and took a few steps back.

“She’s being protective,” Scott explained. “They don’t like strangers around when they are about to give birth.”

Stiles took another step back, and Roxy eased up on her growling.

“Dude, seriously, what’s with you?” Scott asked, addressing his best friend. “And why’s there mud all over you?”

“Fell,” Stiles supplied, looking around the room for… something.

“You fell?”

“Yes, Scott, I fell into a stream of dirty water. Let’s not talk about it.” Then he turned around. “Allison staying with you?”

Scott squirmed under the glare. He couldn’t read Stiles right now. He had expected anger or jealousy or disappointment or hurt at getting left out of the watch and general mayhem. Instead he just looked… dull.

“If we don’t tell Deaton, you can stay, too,” he offered.

Stiles smirked. “Nah. Like I would cheat you from your romantic work place date.”

Scott’s eyes went wide and then he eased up when Allison wrapped one hand around his wrist and latched the fingers of the other’s around Scott’s while she leaned on his shoulder.

There was a look on Stiles’ face he couldn’t decipher but then the other boy just shrugged.

“It’s safe,” he finally declared and Scott was still confused as to what Stiles had been doing here anyway. “You stay in here, eat your Italian or whatever it is. Don’t leave the building; no matter what. Don’t. Leave. I mean it.”

Scott rolled his eyes. “I have a dog to watch. Where would I go?”

Stiles just glared at him. “I’ll head home. Get a good nights rest.”

A few days prior Scott would have doubted his word. He would have been convinced Stiles would get Derek into their house and use the chance for some secret … whatever they were doing secretly together. Scott didn’t want to dwell on that thought for too long.

However considering that Stiles was obviously cranky and angry and generally pissed at Derek he was probably really going home, playing video games until he was tired enough to fall over and sleep on the rug.

Scott followed him out to the waiting area, where he stopped for a few moments, running his fingers over the swing door. “See you tomorrow then. Don’t do anything naughty.” Stiles laughed when Scott turned visibly red and then let himself out.

Allison just squeezed his hand.

Yeah, something strange was definitely going on.

He wondered if it was the full moon.

It tended to make people act crazy.

The evening was quiet. Roxy was shuffling around the room, getting up, stretching her legs, eating and drinking before she dropped down in the dog basket again. Scott hadn’t looked after a lot of pregnant dogs before, but he knew the theory. And something was definitely off, because Roxy didn’t act like she was going into labor. Then again Deaton wouldn’t make him sit around for nothing so maybe Roxy was a special case?

Scott decided not to dwell on this.

There was no point anyway because he had agreed to stay over. And Allison was here, which made it all the better.

They misused the operating table for eating the Italian Allison had bought and later for playing cards. She should have been grossed out. Scott knew he would have been if he didn’t know how clean everything in this room was. Though he did have to fight down memories of what had been going on on that table over the last few months.

It had actually been Allison’s idea.

She was perfect.

Scott knew that the second she didn’t even flinch when she sat down on the stool, taking the napkins and spreading them on the smooth metallic surface and happily dug in.

Scott could only stare at her, dreamy eyed.

Stiles called once, asking if everything was alright, then hung up. They played cards and Scott failed spectacularly at Bridge and Russian Bank but totally owned Sixty-Six. After Allison had to explain the game for about four times and he felt like she was actually letting him win.

His heart started beating a little bit faster.

It was after nine when the call reached him. Scott cursed when he noticed the time below the unknown number, motioned for Allison to look at the clock on the wall above the door as he picked up. The teenager had stopped wondering about unknown caller IDs, ever since the first time Stiles had gotten lost and had to use whatever telephone he could get his hands on.

Scott really hoped this wasn’t Stiles getting lost.

Because stupid timing, seriously.

“Scott?”

It wasn’t Stiles.

“Derek?”

“I think I need your help.”

The words went deep to the core of his bones and he grabbed the phone tight. “What happened? Are you with Stiles? Is everything fine?”

“Stiles is…” there was a pause and Scott went to the door of the operating room, then turned on his heels and headed back to the center. “He’s fine.” Derek finished. It didn’t sound fine. It sounded like Derek stalling time to find the right words to keep Scott from panicking. It didn’t sound  _fine_.

“Are you with him?”

“I’m not,” Derek said.

“You aren’t? Where are you?”

“In front of your house,” Derek replied flatly.

“Okay. Okay. I can be there in twenty minutes. I can—” he stopped dead in his tracks on his way to the front desk, turned around to look at Roxy, kicking legs in her sleep then to Allison, face scrunched in worry. “Shit. No, I can’t.”

He looked helplessly back to the dog.

Of all days.

“I’ll watch her.”

Scott looked up in surprise.

“Go. I’ll watch her till you come back,” Allison offered. She didn’t smile. She just looked worried. Scott wanted to hug her. So he did.

“I’ll pick you up,” Derek suddenly decided, like he had heard them. “Where are you?”

“Animal Clinic, it’s—”

“Got it.”

Scott stared at his phone in disbelief. Derek had hung up on him. How could he leave him hanging like this, without even explaining what the fuck was going on? What was  _wrong_  with Derek Hale?

“What about your parents?”

“I’ll call them and tell them the truth,” she said, shrugging, like it wasn’t such a big deal.

“Okay. If anything happens with Roxy. Call me. I’ll try to be back as soon as possible. I… I’ll meet Derek halfway.”

Allison smiled, a little. “It’s fine. Go.”

“You’re the best,” he said, hugging her again. When he wanted to let go, she wrapped her arms tighter around him then pressed a kiss to his temple and took a step back.

Yeah, Scott had it bad.

Really, really bad.

She huffed out a small laugh, knocking her fist against his shoulder. “Go.”

“Right,” Scott said. Then remembered the situation. He stumbled over his own feet on his way out of the operation room, knocking the coat rack over as he tore his jacket from it.

“Scott?” Allison called.

“I’m fine. Everything’s fine,” he yelled back and then went flying out the entrance. And then he stopped. Because yeah, he should probably just wait for Derek here. It wasn’t like they would get faster if Scott had to drop his bike somewhere at the side line. Speaking of which, his bike wasn’t even there, because Stiles had brought him.

So he waited.

And took a deep breath.

And then his phone rang again.

“You have to meet me,” Derek suddenly said. He sounded  _pissed_.

“Meet you? Meet you where? And why?”

“I’m at a gate. You should be close,” Derek continued without explanation.

Scott furrowed his brow, and shuffled a few steps forward, glancing around the building to the main street and sure enough, just a few yards ahead he could make out the headlights of a car.

“Yeah, I see you,” he replied, already moving forward. “I’m coming up.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, well, so... that's it. The uh... first part of the Chayey Kelev series. I personally only see it as an introduction to everything going on. Most of the story (read: sterek interaction) will happen in the other parts. Hope you're not too disappointed? I thought it was rather anticlimactic when I read it again.
> 
> Some questions will be answered in the next part. I assume you probably already have figured most out. I'd love to hear your feedback, though, to know what I have to address later on and how deep I have to go into explanations.
> 
> So then... I'll just go there... and hide. Yeah...
> 
> Beta-ed by the wonderful [AliceRayne](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceRayne/pseuds/AliceRayne)!
> 
> (I'm not lying, I like, avoided hitting the Post button for half an hour because I don't want to sent this in...)

He was at home, going through his herb filled cupboard, checking a list of things he needed to get ready for the new runes he was going to put up around the house when he heard Stiles’ mobile going off.

Scott was at Deaton’s. Together with Allison. Right after the call from his friend he had gone up, marching the perimeter, adding runes to trees and some fences, and fell into the fucking stream because he slipped on a stone. He hated Stiles’ clumsy body, though he was pretty sure he was better at maneuvering it than Stiles himself. Small mercies. After making sure that the area was as werewolf-safe as possible with his limited skills and amount of mountain ash, he showed up at the animal clinic to hide several charms around the building.

As long as Scott was safe, he wouldn’t call Stiles. Least of all with Allison there. A complication, but something he could deal with. Slightly.

Melissa would only call him if it was something urgent. Something serious. An emergency. He had given her a talisman that, theoretically, should keep evil away. Plus he had put so much stuff to banish monsters in that ink it better work or he would really start to doubt his own skills.

He didn’t like that someone was calling Stiles’ phone.

He really didn’t.

Hesitantly, as if delaying the inevitable would in any way, shape or form make the problem just go away, he picked the phone up, eyes growing wide when he saw the caller ID.

What the hell? Was he  _still_  expecting Stiles to help him?

He ignored the call, throwing the phone at the table with a vehemence that made him marvel at the fact that the display didn’t crack. The werewolf could talk to his mailbox all he wanted.

A second later he received a message.

He continued to ignore the phone, steadily going through his cupboard and list. Bloodroot. Check. Sneezewort. Check. Dried werewolf blood. He made three elaborate marks behind it. Had been enough trouble to get that. Aspen bark. Check. His eyes flickered to the little LED at the side of his phone flashing an obnoxious light blue. He scrunched his nose then continued. Aspen bark, yes, check. Arrowwood. Check. Sulfur Powder. Definitely check. Roots of meadowsweet. Because it just wouldn’t do to have runes in red on the wall, looking like they had been painted on with blood, which, right, there was some blood in there but really, no one should ever know that. So black it was going to be, he decided with a nod.

He had another message incoming, the phone vibrating on the desk for a moment, the activity lamp now blinking furiously at him.

With a sigh he picked it up.

 **25**  the new message simply said.

He scrunched his nose, then scrolled up to the first.

**Got Scott. Thirty minutes.**

For several seconds he had a problem understanding the words. He stared at them, a jumbled mess of letters, floating and entwining in each other, not making sense. And when it finally did, he almost dropped the phone as if it had burned him.

Derek  _couldn’t._

He had used his own runes. He had used mountain ash at the gates. He hid charms. Derek wouldn’t have been able to enter the building, not even the  _ground_. Scott was safe. There was no way Derek had  _Scott_.

Derek couldn’t have gotten to Scott, he decided, then sped dialed his friend’s number and waited for him to pick up. Which probably was in vain. If Stiles would be busy with a girl the last thing he would do was answer his phone. Or maybe the dog had gone into labor and Scott’s hands were all sticky with blood or whatever gross things.

Anyhow, as expected, the mailbox was the only one who eventually wanted to talk to him.

So he called Allison.

Who surprisingly answered.

“Allison, are you still at the animal shelter with Scott?”

Allison was silent for a moment. “No.”

“But Scott’s still there?” he asked.

“No. Scott left. I’m watching the dog.”

Stiles closed his eyes. He could feel the beginning of a very bad headache and was only a migraine away from pinching the back of his nose, Stan Marsh style.  _“What?”_  he asked sharply, really, hissed more.

There was defiance in her voice, when the brunette finally answered. “He got a call from,” she stopped herself. “From someone. Said something important came up. He’ll be back soon.”

“Who called?”

Allison stalled.

“Allison.  _Who. Called?_ ”

“It was Derek,” she blurted out. “Scott didn’t want you to know, because you wouldn’t tell him—”

He hang up, his mouth opening and closing because  _what?_. What. What. Seriously.  _What_  the hell was going on?

“I’ll kill him.” Derek or Scott, he wasn’t even sure who he was talking about. There was still confusion when he finally pulled himself together and his emotional latitude was only capable for mere irritation and anger.

His skin was brimming, his whole body tensed as he clenched and unclenched his hands. With wrath intention he climbed out of the former wine cellar, knuckles white were his fingers were bend around the ladder as if he needed something to anchor him, needed something to keep his hammering heart from bursting through his rib cage, tremors of anger shaking him to the core.

Derek wanted to play?

Derek fucking got to play.

The werewolf hadn’t told him where he was, but really, there was only one place they would be. The boy looked around for his backpack he had thrown into a corner as he had entered the house.

The Hale Ruin.

Because that was where Peter was buried, where he needed Stiles to be for whatever they wanted to do. It would take him almost twenty minutes by car if he sped it and broke several road laws – which he was going to do. It meant that Derek didn’t want to give him time to prepare.

He checked the mountain ash and wolfsbane he had kept in his bag ever since the night Derek attacked him. He didn’t have time to properly prepare his weapon but he threw it in there anyway. He had kept it clean, so if push came to shove he would just have to hope it worked without burning his own fingers or backfiring in his eyes or, most likely, not firing at all.

He  _really_  needed an automatic.

He would badger his aunt to give him one. Or just steal it. She won’t ever notice with the whole arsenal she keeps carrying around in her trunk.

He pulled the shirt up, tugged under his chin to keep it from dropping as he stopped in front of a mirror, grabbing a water-resistant black marker from his bag and drew a protection rune on his stomach. He wasn’t sure if it would do him any good. One apparently never knew with Derek Hale.

Stiles threw the backpack into his Jeep, started the engine and left the driveway with squealing wheels.

He wouldn’t let his mind drift to what might happen in twenty minutes. What Derek might have done to Scott. What he could do to Scott. To what lengths Derek was willing to go to get that psychopath of an uncle back into this life.

Derek was all about family. All about  _his_  family. The hunter should have seen that coming. Should have known that the werewolf wouldn’t sit back and simply  _wait_. That Derek knew there was nothing that could keep Stiles away from Scott.

But a phone call? Seriously, how the hell should he have been able to foresee  _that?_  He hadn’t even been aware that Scott  _knew_ Derek.

His grip around the steering wheel tightened as he drove outside town, approaching the preserve.

There was no time to think about that.

No. He had to calm down. Had to get a grip on himself. Had to think about how to approach the werewolf. Come up with a strategy.  _Get a grip._  Yet, his thoughts just kept drifting back to Scott. Who was with Derek. Who was an Alpha werewolf. Who could bite him.

Soon to be  _dead_  Alpha werewolf, if he had laid one single claw on his friend. If Scott for whatever reason was afraid, scared, hurt,  _bitten_ , there was nothing to hold him back. There was no way he was going to forgive, to not retaliate.

He could make out the burned out remains through the barren trees, his teeth grinding together in his struggle to keep calm, collected, unfazed. Because Scott? Scott was Stiles’ best and longest friend. Was what kept the boy together. Was one of the three pillars of support he had left and there was no telling what would happen if that one was lost.

He slowed down the closer he came.

The hunter didn’t know whether he had made it in the alleged half hour but it wouldn’t do him any good to wrap the car around a tree just because he had been distracted. The tires stuttered on the soiled earth when his jeep came to a stop in front of the Hale House.

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to clear his thoughts, before he opened them again, reaching for his backpack but aborting the motion when he registered a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eyes.

There was Scott. Leaving the house. Somewhat relaxed if a little irritated. With Derek Hale on his back.

“What the fuck,  _Scott?_ ” he yelled.

His friend had at least the decency to look sheepish. Stiles snatched the backpack from the seat, then climbed out of the jeep.

“Stop.” Stiles’ eyes flickered to the werewolf, who had his hand leisurely on Scott’s shoulder in a faked friendly gesture. “Drop it.” Scott furrowed his brows, about to turn around to other man, when his movement was stopped by a hand to his neck. “Now.”

Stiles gritted his teeth, then threw the bag back to his jeep. He still had mountain ash and wolfsbane powder in his pockets, though. If he could get close enough to Derek it would at least stop him long enough.

“Guys? What’s going on?” Scott asked, tensed in front of Derek, who now left his side, strolling up to the grave. Stiles followed the werewolf with his eyes, then hefted them back on his friend.

“Are you alright, Scott?” He asked slowly, but he already felt some tension leaving his body at the fact alone that Scott didn’t look hurt or scared or anything really. And as soon as this realization hit him, he had to stomp down the anger that was beginning to grow in him. He could yell at Scott later for however long he wanted, but right now he would have to get him out, to get away with the jeep as far as he could. To just fucking drive away so he wouldn’t have to see any of this.

“Scott, I need you to go,” he said, took another step forward, then stopped dead in his tracks when his toe bumped against something. He blinked in confusion.

“Not until we have sorted this out,” Scott replied sternly.

Stiles blinked again, tried to take another step but failed.

“Scott!” Even to his own ears his voice sounded strange; low, guttural, trembling as he tried to bite back the rising fear and the other teenager flinched at his name alone. Derek just ignored them, his back turned to them, hands kept busy with… with mirrors. “Sort out what?”

He was trapped.

He was fucking  _trapped._

“This. Between us. And him.” Scott explained with a frown, hand waving at Derek, then stopped as he threw Stiles an inquisitive look. “What’s he doing anyway?”

Stiles kicked against the barrier like that would do  _anything_. It didn’t. Of course it didn’t. Derek was a failure at a lot of things, runes included. But there was no rune. Not a charm. Not on the ground where he could see it. Nothing.

And his heart beat was driving him  _nuts_.

“Stiles? What are  _you_  doing?”

Stiles wanted to hurt someone. Badly.

“Stiles?” Scott asked again, moving to approach him.

“Stop!” he hissed. “Don’t move. I don’t know—just… stay there.”

He needed to find the stupid thing. Needed to figure out what it did before he could ask Scott to do anything, to move. For all he knew this could be a contact mine and it could explode in Scott’s face if Derek didn’t do it right and seriously, doubted Derek could get  _anything_  right.

“Derek,” he started, watching the man moving around the grave, but was ignored, which fanned his anger even more. “What did you do?” The boy dropped down to his knees, pushing leaves to the side, digging in the dirt because it had do be somewhere, it couldn’t be invisible. There had to be a rune. Or a talisman.  _Something._  And there should be a way to destroy that thing as soon as he knew how it worked. There was always a way.

But where the hell was it?

“Derek, stop this right now,” he tried, blunt nails digging deeper into the ground now. His knuckles started to ache and his skin was breaking from his frantic movements but it had to be somewhere, for Gods sake. Derek turned slightly towards him, lifting an eyebrow in mockery and then nodded to the sky. For a moment he didn’t understand, and the brunette wanted to roll his eyes because he was freaking aware of the full moon looming over them. And then he saw it. In the trees. A webbing of white threads partially reflecting the moon light. There was a neat trapping rune right above him, painted on a parchment attached to the threads. It was simple. It was just for  _him_. He frowned at the paper, then followed the threads of yarn leading back to were Derek stood, to another paper, right above the grave of his uncle.

That godforsaken smart fucking bastard.

“How do you know my name?” he breathed. Derek just shrugged. “How can you be resourceful enough to find out my name and not realize that  _your fucking uncle killed your sister?_ ”

_“What?”_

Stiles gritted his teeth. “Scott, get out of here. Run.”

“What? What’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you everything, okay? I’ll tell you the truth, but you have to stop,” he continued, addressing Derek again. He knew he was begging, but this seriously didn’t look good. “Just take my jeep and  _run_ ,” he yelled at Scott. The hunter didn’t have the mind to do three things at once and he was about to get fucking  _whiplash_. “Can’t you just listen to what I tell you for once?” And he didn’t even know who the last sentence was directed to. And neither did Scott or Derek.

Scott just stared at him, speechless, his mouth opening and closing, but he still wasn’t moving.

He had a feeling he was losing his fucking mind.

“You’re making a mistake,” he gritted out again. “You have to trust me on this one. Derek, I’m telling you the  _truth_.”

“Like before?”

He hitched at the words. The first interaction. His only chance to get this right.

“No. I’ve lied to you, okay? I’ve lied. A lot. But I’m not lying this time.”

“How can I tell?” Derek asked, not even bothering to look up from where he lifted the blanket from the ground. Scott gasped at the hole, and maybe finally something made click in his friend’s head, because he suddenly moved.

“My bag! Bring me the bag!” Stiles shouted. Scott hesitated but he stumbled to a stop before changing direction and rushing to the jeep, throwing the backpack at Stiles. The moment Stiles caught it, Derek gnawed into his own wrist, blood seeping out. Scott squeaked, Stiles cursed, tearing on the zippers.

Derek reached out, positioned his hand into Peter’s rotten one. He turned the last mirror the second Stiles pulled the gun out.

And then the boy was flat on his stomach, a pull tugging on his insides, shoving him down, forcing air out of his lungs. The gun dropped to the ground. He tried to reach for it but his body refused to move.

And then he fainted.

* * *

Derek wasn’t sure how long he had been out, could have been seconds or minutes or hours. He groaned in pain, when he opened his eyes, he closed them again against the wave of aching electricity shooting through his spine. He remembered the tension in his extremities, before he even comprehended, the hand tightened around his wrist, broken nails digging deep into his skin and he gritted his teeth, watching with shackled fascination as eyes fluttered open.

“Stiles!” Scott’s voice suddenly echoed over Derek’s conscience and the werewolf turned to look to where the boys were. Stiles was lying on the ground, Scott about to hurry over to him but instead stopped dead in his tracks. Confused, Derek’s eyes followed Scott’s. There was Peter languidly standing up, covered in dirt and—it worked.

Whatever it was that Peter had forced out of him and Stiles, it had worked.

Derek backed off, wary about what it was that was greeting him. A feral wolf, having been suppressed for years. Or the uncle he used to knew.

Peter cracked his neck, rolling, looking around, brushing dust from his clothes before his eyes fell on Derek and he smirked.

“Hello nephew.”

Derek just looked at him, then pushed himself up, but stumbled back down. Peter was by his side immediately, steadying him. “You’ll be weak for several hours,” he explained, hands tight around Derek’s wrist and neck.

Derek nodded in understanding. He felt drained. His eyes fixed on Peter’s hand, his nails grown back, the scar still a stigma on his face. Peter must have noticed. He let a hand travel over the side, touching it.

“It will take some time to heal,” he said. “If at all.”

Derek was about to reply, mumble ‘I’m sorry’ like a mantra or something equally stupid, when he felt Stiles’ heartbeat quickening. He turned to look for the boy, who was groaning as he let one hand run through his hair.

“What happened?” Stiles mumbled.

Peter smirked.

Something felt wrong.

“Stiles!” Scott yelled from where he knelt on the ground, eyes wide, body shaking. He was terrified. Derek assumed it was justified. Stiles’ head snapped up, and then he pushed himself up on wobbly legs, walking over to where Scott was kneeling. “Scott, are you alright?”

“I...  _What?”_  Scott stuttered, reaching up to pad Stiles all over his body, as if to make sure he was real and unharmed. “If  _I’m_  alright? What about  _you?_ ”

“Endearing,” Peter cooed.

“And Derek’s eyes were glowing! Why were his eyes glowing fucking red. And that dude,” Scott’s hand pointed to Peter. Stiles shook his head in confusion, then turned to follow his friend’s finger, eyes suddenly widening in horror. “Where did that dude come from?”

“You can see him?”

Scott nodded.

“It’s nice to see you, Stiles,” Peter finally said and before Derek could reach his hand out to stop him, his uncle already advanced, steps predatory slow. Just like his smile.

Something was definitely wrong.

Stiles forced Scott up, furiously tugging on his arms and when he finally stood, pushed him behind himself while he backed them away to get more distance to Peter.

Derek’s body felt numb and heavy. He stood through sheer willpower. Peter was weak, too. So was Stiles. All of them drained, on shaky legs with trembling fingers and lead limbs. It was laughable how Scott, the asthmatic weak kid, right now was probably the most able among them. However his heartbeat was as rapid as Stiles’. The air was reeking of fear, sweat, sulphur, magic, and Peter.

And Peter was pleased.

“It’s good to finally meet you,” his uncle smirked. “The one who killed me.“

Derek’s body went rigid, watching the boy whose eyes widened in horror and confusion and—Scott and Stiles looked back at him.

Peter chuckled. “It was you, Stiles.”

“What? No! No—I’ve never… I’ve never killed anyone!” Stiles defended himself.

Scott behind him growled. “What are you talking about? Stiles would never do that. And anyway, you’re  _not_  dead. This is stupid. If this is your kind of joke, it sucks, Derek.”

Derek’s throat closed up.

Peter wasn’t lying.

“Oh, he did,” Peter mused, taking another few steps closer.

“I didn’t!” Stiles stumbled over his own feet as he pushed the two of them further back, Scott steadying him with one hand. Stiles’ eyes landing on Derek. “It’s the truth, Derek. I didn’t kill him. I told you!”

He was telling the truth.

“I left my mark on you.”

The wound on the shoulder, Derek realized, smelling of carbon and sulphur and so familiar. It had been tainted. By his uncle. By his uncles’ claws. Ripped out of his fingers. Conscious enough to leave a mark.

He hadn’t been sleeping.

“I swear, by  _God_  I swear, Derek, I didn’t kill him!” Stiles hands were shaking and he reached down to his pants, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. He was sweating, he was scared; his heart was racing a mile a minute. Scott had his hands around Stiles’ arm and shoulder, trying to protect him from the sheltered position his friend had etched him into behind himself.

“Peter, are you sure?” Derek finally asked, though these weren’t the words he wanted to come out of his mouth. He wanted to ask how he had been able to mark Stiles. How long he had been awake. Why he had been hiding his healing process.

“Yes,” his uncle replied, still advancing, cocking his head slightly in contemplation.

“Stay back. Get away from us!” Stiles’ voice was high, alarmed, terrified, his hands fiddling with his jeans chain and then—an all too familiar shiver suddenly ran down Derek’s spine. Before he could react there were several high-pitched sounds. He cringed, closing his hands over his ears. He noticed Peter doing the same and he threw irritated looks around until he stopped at the chain in Stiles’ hand.

“Stay. The fuck. Away,” the boy growled. The obvious fear was gone in an instant, replaced by anger and confusion. Derek kept watching the chain, rotating in the boy’s hand, giving up several irregular, high sounds. “You’re a fucking asshole, Derek Hale. I should have killed you the moment I met you in the forest!”

“Stiles?”

“Shut up, Scott. The second we make it out alive, we are going to have a talk.”

_“Alive?”_

At that Peter gave out a feral growl and before Derek could react his uncle got into a crouched stand, sprinting up to the two boys. Stiles hurled the chain into the air. Momentarily distracted, Peter followed it with his eyes before he leapt at the boys – and bumped right into an invisible barrier, bouncing back. And then he laughed. Dry and crazy.

As the chain fell to the ground with a dull thud, Derek saw the perfect black circle of mountain ash at Stiles’ feet, the chain slithering around his ankle like liquid iron.

“You have two heartbeats,” Peter cracked from where he stood.

“That’s why they call me the Timelord,” Stiles shot back, cocking his brow. Scott groaned even though his grip was now tighter around Stiles, his heart still beating fast and furious, breaths shaky and fast. “Oh come on! You can't throw something like that at me and not expect me to make a reference,” Stiles quipped in faux bravado, rolling his eyes.

Peter smirked.

“You’re not the same,” he rephrased his initial statement and Stiles copied the expression, cocking his head to the side in a smug confident gesture.

“Oh? A smart one suddenly appeared. Gotta catch him,” he replied dryly, huffing out a laugh.

“What are you talking about?” Derek asked. His head was spinning. It was aching and the two steps he took in their direction hurt like a bitch.

“After all this time you never noticed?” Peter asked, not facing him, eyes on the boys, calculating every step. “You have never met one, I guess. Not knowingly. Someone like him.” Peter didn’t elaborate what he meant with ‘someone like him’. Derek hated getting kept out of the loop. Hated that constant beating around the bush. That no one was capable of just saying what was going on. “I did. Once. A fierce one. Blond. Smart. Strong-willed. She was just like you, Stiles. Not herself.”

Stiles squinted his eyes, Scott now palming at his plaid shirt in utter confusion, bewildered eyes catching Derek’s but Derek couldn’t give him an answer to his silent questions. He was as lost in this conversation.

“What?” Scott asked.

Peter snorted in scornful amusement. “He’s a two in one. One body, two minds,” his uncle explained in the same sneering tone he had used on Derek like he was an idiot because he couldn’t solve his calculus problems. “That’s why he could get away with the lying. Because the other one doesn’t know.”

‘Orthrus,’Derek recalled Millie’s word’s. The two-headed dog. ‘Stiles, but not Stiles.’ Obviously, the name Reynard had been more fitting than he had initially known back when he decided on it.

“He’s  _shizo?_ ” Scott burst out, frantically pushing his hands into his pockets now. “This is—Inhaler. Fuck. I need. Inhaler.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, pushed himself away and turned around, flapping Scott’s frantic hands to the side before he stuck one hand into Scott’s jacket, pulled something out and shoved it at the hyperventilating boy. “Now breathe,” the brunette instructed.

“What is going on?” Derek roared, venting his anger and confusion **.**  He felt like he couldn’t maintain a single thought. And it had been so obvious. All this time when Stiles didn’t know what he was talking about. When they had talked about something and that tingle in his nape, the shiver he kept on feeling it was—the change in heartbeats.

In Stiles’ heartbeat. A tick lower or faster depending on—

“Who is the real one?” He asked, his head snapping up. “Who’s the hunter?”

“Who is the real one?! Hunter?!” Scott heaved in-between puffs and Stiles just slapped him against the shoulder. “What kind of question  _is_  that? I’d rather know—oh my God! That’s why you sometimes know and sometimes you don’t. Because—”

“Scott. Not the place,” Stiles interrupted him.

“Alright okay, but!” his hand waved in the general direction of the werewolves. “What the fuck are they? Because glowing eyes and fangs—” Scott’s mouth dropped open and Stiles just shrugged, when the boy turned to stare at him. “ _Werewolves?_ ”

Stiles shrugged again.

“They’re  _real?_  Oh my God! Suddenly everything makes  _sense_. Oh God, that’s why you kept asking Deaton that creepy stuff! Did you even know what I went through to convince him that you were  _not_  a psychopath out to murder innocent pets?”

“Scott. Not. The. Time.”

“And they are going to kill us?”

“Not if I can help it,” Stiles challenged, raking his chin.

“This is so interesting,” Peter chuckled to himself.

No, it wasn’t.

This was messed up. This was disturbing. This was  _insane_. This was Derek’s life. And it was all a big  _joke_. And Derek’s body was too weak to actually  _do_  something about it.

“Does that mean—” Scott stopped and Stiles looked like he was bracing himself for what was about to come. “Does that mean… your mother was really killed by werewolves?”

Derek choked back a ‘what’.

“Yes,” Stiles replied, pressing his lips together.

Peter laughed. “Is that what you were told?”

Stiles snapped his eyes to the older man. “What do you mean?”

“Talia would be dismayed to hear that.”

Peter knew Stiles’ mother. Derek’s  _mom_  had known her. Derek knew the picture had been distantly familiar. “She was our emissary?”

Peter snorted, shock his head in disgust. “Oh Derek. How come your approach is right, but you always arrive at the wrong conclusion? You have always been disappointing like that.” Derek almost flinched at the words, the biting coldness. “She was not our emissary. But she was,” he twisted his lips in contempt, “my mentor. A… friend of your mother’s.”

“Bullshit,” Stiles growled. “She was a hunter. She wouldn’t have associated with werewolves.”

Peter shock his head again. “Claudia would twist in her grave if she saw you right now. All grown up. And misusing all that power you have inherited.”

“Don’t talk about her like that.”

“Oh, the immense satisfaction and pleasure I get from seeing you this way. Right now. All wrong and confused and  _broken_. That night in the forest, when you killed me, I knew something was wrong.”

“Stop saying he  _killed_  you. You’re  _not_  dead!” Scott hissed again and took another drag out of the inhaler. They were pathetic. All of them. Stiles, Scott, Peter, Derek – easy prey for whoever chose to walk by. Derek had expected things to get messy, had dealt with the hunters prowling the perimeter beforehand, knowing they would show up sooner or later on the full moon but even then, this was more than he had bargained for.

And all he wanted to know was  _the truth_. Just  _once_  in his life. “Stiles,” he started, sounding like a broken record, tired and apathetic, “did you kill my uncle?”

Scott paused, looking pained and scared and like he would rather run than hear the answer to that question.

“Yes, I did,” Stiles snarled. “And it was so, so easy. If I had known he’d become such a nuisance I would have fucking burned him to ashes.”

It felt like all the air was pushed out of Derek’s body. Peter lifted his chin disdain, but before anyone could react, Scott whacked his friend over the back of the head.

“Oww, Scott, what the fuck—”

“What were you  _thinking?_ ”

“What?”

“Stiles! You  _killed_  someone!”

“He tried to kill  _me_  first!”

“Actually,” Peter started. “I tried to turn you. It was an experiment.”

“There you have it. He didn’t try to kill you.”

“Scott. I will push you over this line of mountain ash and leave you to defend yourself.”

“He’s lying,” Derek stated toneless, then turned to Peter. “You are not lying,” he said equally deadened. Peter frowned at him, Derek’s body tense. “What did you say?” He questioned because he must have heard wrong.

“Dear God, Derek, get a clue, man.” Stiles rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Your  _precious defenseless_  uncle killed your sister to become Alpha and now it's your turn. I fucking told you.  _Several times._ ”

Derek felt his insides twist.

“You want to know what happened that night?” Stiles asked, clenching his jaws and Derek thought, no, he didn’t want to know. Didn’t need to know. Probably never really wanted to know. “I was out to find the other half of your sister’s body.”

“Jesus, Stiles,  _tact_ ,” Scott groaned into his hand.

“And when I found it, I was attacked. By an Alpha. So I killed him.”

Peter was not an Alpha. Had never been. Was never supposed to be according to his mother.

Neither was Derek.

“He was the one who killed your sister.”

“No.”

He was lying. Stiles had the ability to lie while telling the truth. Stiles’ heartbeat, when jumping to his throat had always been misleading, because it could have been nervousness, or fear cloaking the lie. He knew there were times Stiles told him the truth, but his pulse was so fast and skittering it could have been a lie. Maybe  _this_  Stiles only thought it happened like that, maybe the other Stiles knew the truth.

“Derek, you know I’m right,” Stiles watched him in disdain. “Just for  _once_  use your brain. When did you become Alpha? The day before we met in the woods, right? Laura had been dead for  _days_  then. She didn’t die that night. So a wolf had killed her.  _Peter_  had killed her. Jesus, Derek, just think  _for once_.”

Derek looked at the ground, and then to the two boys, huddled together in a small mountain ash circle, then to Peter in front of them and whatever his face was showing, everyone knew what conclusion he had drawn the moment he did.

“It was an unfortunate accident,” Peter suddenly started and Derek had to force his body still to prevent himself from shaking his head in disbelief. “I wasn’t in my right mind.”

“You!” he growled, trying to take a step forward.

“You think I killed Laura on purpose?” Peter barreled through his accusation before Derek could even get started. “One of my own family? My mind, my personality were literally burned out of me. I was being driven by pure instinct!”

“So what? You want forgiveness?” Derek felt the anger flaring up inside him again. He was weak, but so was Peter. He was an Alpha, Peter was… was not even a real werewolf yet.

“I want understanding,” Peter shouted. “Do you have any idea, what it was like for me during those years? Slowly healing, cell by cell. Even more slowly coming back to consciousness. Yes, becoming an Alpha, taking that from Laura pushed me over a plateau in the healing process. I can't help that.”

“Fucking bullshit,” Stiles interjected. “You knew exactly what you were doing. You lured her into a trap. You told that axe bitch to—”

“Stiles. I really think we shouldn’t call attention to us. Right now. Or ever.”

“Oh right.  _Now_  your self preservation kicks in, Scott. No, not when that serial killer guy lures you into the woods.”

“Derek, you have to believe me, this wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“This happened because  _you_  never talk to anyone!”

“The last time I talked to you about it you sent me to a nuthouse. How was I supposed to say anything?”

Derek squinted, shaking his head. Three voices yelling into his conscience, he had trouble telling them apart. Peter was still trying to explain, but above the noise all he could really hear, loud and clear, was Stiles’ voice, shrill with anger, panic and indignation.

“Two weeks, Scott. Two fucking weeks, completely  _drugged out of my mind_. And the only reason you let me out was because I couldn’t fucking talk anymore. Because I didn’t know my  _name_  anymore.”

“Derek, if I could bring Laura back, I would—”

 _“Enough,”_  Derek shouted and finally,  _finally_  everyone fell silent. At least for a few seconds.

“Yeah, right. This… no… this is not the time. Or the place. It’s nothing,” Stiles interrupted the quietness. Derek tilted his head to the side, eyes closed for a brief moment, however acutely aware of every movement.

“Derek,” Peter tried again after another moment’s silence, exasperated sigh on his lips. “You have to give me a chance to explain. After all, we're family.”

“Derek.” The man slowly opened his eyes, stared at Peter for a long time, before he gazed at Stiles, who glared at him, mouth pressed into a thin line. “He was in the forest. With Laura. He wasn’t waiting for a noisy kid to suddenly show up; he was waiting for you, because he knew you’d come. And there was a reason. For him. To wait for you. What kind of reason could that be?”

“I think it’s about time you shut up,” Peter growled, turning his attention to the boys and for whatever reason, Derek stepped between them, back facing Stiles and Scott. So insanely stupid, but his instincts reacted before his brain followed.

A werewolf never turned their back to a hunter.

“I see,” Peter snarled. “We will continue this later.” His eyes glanced at the teenagers. “Without a distraction.” His uncle shifted, slow and partially, and then was gone. Derek tried to follow him, but his legs gave way under his body and he stumbled to his knees, breathing harshly and turning to and growling at Stiles when he registered movement.

“How stupid do you feel right now?”

Derek growled again.

Stiles was a hunter. Part of Stiles was a hunter. Was more than just some druid with a few runes and herbs. He was actually trained to hunt his kind. And Derek was too weak to even know how well he could defend himself against him right now.

He pushed himself up.

“Whatever happens, whoever he is going to kill, Derek. This blood will be on  _your_  hands. And I will not clean up your mess. This is on you, do you hear me?”

Walking was fine. Walking he could do. Not running, but walking was okay. So he did just that. He started to walk, not looking back and Stiles wasn’t following him. He walked until he couldn’t hear their heartbeats anymore; walked until he arrived at the place Laura had been burned at the stakes.

By the nurse.

His uncle’s accomplice.

On his uncle’s demand.

Because if Derek had brought back Laura, she could have told him about Peter. And Peter would have never come back to life. But she was still dead, and would always remain that way, and it had all gone according to Peter’s plan.

Stiles was right for calling him a tool.

* * *

To Scott’s credit, he had been rather collected.

The hunter was… impressed, to say the least. And proud. He was mighty fucking proud of Scott for not fainting on the spot like a damsel in distress. He wasn’t so proud about him actually getting into this situation, getting lured into a trap, made by someone like  _Derek Hale_.

The brunette was still sort of trying to get over  _that_  shock.

However, looking back at Derek’s expression the moment he realized that he hadn’t only been played by Stiles but also by his uncle sort of softened the blow. The trap most likely had been Peter’s idea anyway, because Derek was all about shoot first, ask questions never.

For a brief moment there had been something like  _pity_  at the unbelievably vulnerable confused-hurt-angry-sad expression of the werewolf sprouting in the hunters mind. Until he had to violently remind himself that Derek had brought this on himself.

“So,” Scott started as soon as the hunter left the preserve, heading for the animal clinic, where Scott apparently had ditched Allison in order to help Stiles. If Stiles knew, he would have been all giddy inside despite the situation.

“Not… right now?” he asked, because he had to keep looking out for Peter. Or Derek. Or hunters. And seriously, why weren’t there hunters around? Wouldn’t they usually roam the woods on a Full Moon? They did the last time, why weren’t they there  _this_  time?

They knew about Derek. They probably knew he was hiding out in his old home. Where had they been?

Unless of course, Derek had taken care of them before they had time to stage an intervention and yep, not really something he wanted to think about.

But screw his aunt, he was going to find them, give them a piece of his mind for attacking him in the woods—which, nope. If they recognized him they would already think he was working with Derek. If they didn’t already assume that seeing as  _everyone_  apparently knew about them. Fucking small town gossip.

But he could at least tell them what had been going on and that he was out. Officially out until this whole thing was over. Until it was safe for Stiles, because seriously, he couldn’t protect him like that. Not with two werewolves expressively on his ass.

Metaphorically speaking.

“You’re not Stiles,” Scott continued. Or started. How long had he been out?

“Why would you think that?”

“Because Stiles wouldn’t gloat about killing someone. Wouldn’t be smug about how easy it had been.”

He scrunched his nose, before he nodded. “No, he wouldn’t.”

“Then who are you?”

That was a particular tricky question to answer. “I am…” He stopped, shock his head. “I am not really… I’m a protector,” he eventually opted, frowning at the word for lack of definition. “I mean, that’s what I’m here for. I think. That’s why Stiles created me. To keep him safe. Sane. Let him be a normal teenager.”

Scott scowled at that. “What do you mean a normal teenager? There’s no way he’s a normal teenager. If at all you made it worse,” he accused. “How can he be normal when you let him run around the woods during night? When you take his body to kill werewolves? If it wasn’t for you and you pulling shit like that his life would have been much easier!”

His gripped around the steering wheel tightened. “Someone has to do it. And  _Stiles_  would never. You said he wouldn’t kill? Yes, exactly. That’s why I have to do it. And he would never  _survive_. He doesn’t have the knowledge. Doesn’t _want_ it.”

“You still don’t have to fight those things! Use your knowledge to  _avoid_  shit like that. Not … I don’t know, hunt it!”

“It’s not that easy, Scott!” he finally yelled, losing patience. “Once in the know, there’s no turning back! It’s not easy to get out and leave it all behind, knowing something could attack someone you  _love_  just because you were too lazy to deal with it in the first place.”

“Bullshit!” Scott snapped. “It doesn’t have to be you. It doesn’t have to be  _Stiles_. Let other people handle this.”

“There were no others’! There was only  _me!_ ”

Scott looked at him for a long time, anger leaving his expression and there was a soft sadness in his eyes, before he deflated in his seat. “We left you alone, too.”

“What? No. Don’t do that. We are not doing  _pity_  here. We don’t have time for that.”

The other teenager just shook his head. “Mom and I… we really thought you… he was sick. That time when he called me from the woods, crying and scared because he didn’t know where he was and how he had gotten there – it had been you. You brought him there. Doing whatever you were doing.”

“Probably.”

“He wasn’t showing his mother’s  _symptoms_.”

“No.”

“And all those times we thought he kept on forgetting stuff, when we thought he had some kind of selective memory dysfunction or whatever. It’s because we didn’t talk to him but to  _you_. Or the other way around. Or whatever.”

“Yeah. Most likely.”

“And those days he was constantly tired and looked like shit even though he swore he had slept the whole night was because  _you_  were awake in  _his_  body doing… doing stuff?”

“Yes.”

“And those time lapses he sometimes had, that was when you were coming out? Did  _you_  break Jackson’s nose?”

“How many times was it broken?”

“Twice.”

“Yep, both me,” he confirmed, a little smug. Scott didn’t look that pleased, though.

“So. What is this? Is this like schizophrenia? Multiple personality disorder?”

He curled his lips in disgust. “First of all, multiple personality disorder would mean he’s someone else, so, no, it’s not that. Schizophrenia is not… right either. It’s… It’s complicated.”

“Does Misses Cartridge know?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“My God, does  _Stiles_  even know?”

He gnawed on his lower lip, and then shrugged. “He’s smart.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he explained, eyes fixed on the dark road, “that I’m not aware of what he knows and what he doesn’t. I don’t know what he’s up to during the day or the night or whenever I’m not there. I’m not around all the time. I don’t linger in his subconscious. I don’t listen in to what he does or whatever it is you think is going on in this brain. When Stiles is out, it’s Stiles. And when I’m out it’s… well, me. There’s no fight going on between us via subconscious or whatever.”

“That’s a lie,” Scott said after a moment of stunned silence.

“No, it’s not.”

“It has to be. I’ve never realized Stiles not being Stiles! I mean there used to be moments when I was surprised about some stuff he did, but all in all it was still Stiles. Always. You were still Stiles. There’s no way you could imitate him this well without knowing what he’s like.”

“I’m nothing like Stiles,” he scoffed, “he created me as a coping mechanism. Fundamentally, we might have the same characteristics, but our knowledge, our experiences differ. That’s what doesn’t make me Stiles.”

“But you kinda are.”

“Scott, you yourself said just  _minutes ago_  that I’m not.”

Scott opened his mouth, closed it again. “You are not,  _but you are_.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

 _“Nothing_ _makes sense!”_

“I’m not Stiles,” he emphasized again with more sharpness to his voice this time. Because it was something he shouldn’t ever forget. Over the years it had been almost impossible to swallow the jealousy that sometimes rose in him, but he learned to deal with it. He was gone the second Stiles decided he didn’t need him anymore. And he had accepted that a long time ago. He didn’t need anyone telling him it wasn’t like that.

“So… do you have a name then? Or do I just call you Stiles?”

“No, you don’t. Not anymore. And I don’t need a name. Just call me dude or whatever.”

Scott held his head in hands. “This is so confusing.”

“You tell me. I have to live like that.”

Scott’s voice was almost inaudible. “Since when?”

“What?”

“Since when… how… I mean, does it have to do with his father?”

Stiles’ shoulders tensed and he swallowed. Because yeah, it probably did. “I guess.”

“Almost six years then?”

“Yes.”

Scott was silent after that, staring out of the window, shoulders hunched and a little pathetic. He opened his mouth every once in a while, as if to ask a question but instead let it snap shut again, without saying anything.

It wasn’t what he had expected. More anger. More screaming. More other stuff. Instead it was calm. Which maybe had to do with the fact that Scott had learned about the existence of werewolves. And hey, apparently resurrection was a thing, too, who would have known? So yeah, Stiles having some form of split personality or personality disorder or post-traumatic stress disorder or whatever was probably very low on Scott’s issue list at the moment.

“Oh oh,” Scott groaned. The hunter startled at his words. When he glanced over the other boy nodded ahead where they could make out several cars parked in front of the clinic. “They called Deaton,” he whispered.

They did.

When Stiles stopped the jeep in front of the clinic, Deaton rushed out of the building, followed by a woman with red hair and a face that made him contemplate seppuku. Allison was the last to come out, not exactly less angry but with at least an ounce of worry in her features.

“Dude, can you put the jeep in reverse and just get us out of here,” Scott asked, not averting his eyes from the people expectantly waiting for them.

“Come on, Scott. You’re not one to abandon responsibility,” he replied, patting the other on the knee before he left the car. He was probably lucky they weren’t out for  _his_  blood though. Deaton kept his distance, so did Allison. It was the woman, presumably Allison’s mother, who came charging at Scott like she was some feral animal.

“Where have you been?” she asked, her voice manically low and angry.

“There… there was a misunderstanding. I mean I know,” Scott started, but Allison interrupted him.

“Mom, I told you, it wasn’t Scott fault. I offered to look after the dog until he came back.” There was a note of something in her voice, like an accusation, like she wanted to say ‘but not for so long’, but better left it unsaid. Scott must have detected it too.

“I’m really sorry. I though… I though something bad had happened and when—”

“What did you think happened?” the older woman asked, squinting her eyes at him.

Scott pointed with a thumb to Stiles, who waved at the group with a nervous smile, looking as scared as he probably felt under the penetrating glare of Allison’s mother, and Deaton. Because even though Deaton hadn’t said anything, yet, his eyes were drilling holes into them.

“I… I thought Stiles got lost, or—”

“Stiles,” she repeated, her eyes flickering over to him and yep, he knew that look. That was definitely the I-know-you-from-somewhere-you’re-the-crazy-kid-from-the-stories-look. Great. At least that would hopefully calm her down, because everyone in town knew that Stiles was a walking problem bathing in issues.

At least she got out of Scott’s face.

“Allison, we are going,” she finally snapped. The brunette girl was about to say something, but stopped and instead just glanced at Scott. Her mother didn’t turn around as she stormed off to their car. When Allison followed, she put a hand on Scott’s arm in a soothing gesture as she passed him, but threw Stiles an angry glare, like this was all  _his_  fault.

Seriously, this was  _Derek’s_  fault.

Not that he could say that out loud.

They remained silent until the engine of the SUV faded into the night, Scott hanging his head low, awaiting his execution. “Am I fired?” Scott finally whispered.

“No,” Deaton replied, and then headed back into the clinic. “Follow me.” The boys looked at each other, before Scott shrugged and went after Deaton. “You too, Stiles,” the man added.

And yep, that was not according to plan. Or Deaton. That was, nope, he wasn’t allowed into the animal clinic. Usually. Shit.

He followed, not exactly weapon ready but ready to do something.

“Maybe one of you can explain, why I found this right next to the entrance door,” the man started as soon as they entered the reception area, holding up a brown paper bag which, admittedly, wasn’t his best charm but the only thing he had had at hand at that moment, and then a second transparent smaller one.

He internally groaned at the contents, which would probably scare anyone, because a) it smelled super funny and b) looked like pot. He had planned to visit in the early mornings, pretending to check up on Scott and collect the charms. He was sure, Scott wouldn’t notice them. Of course Deaton did.

Damn it.

“That’s mine,” Scott suddenly said, face flushing and betraying the obvious lie.

“It is,” Deaton asked or stated or said, because, seriously, intonation, dude? That man was worse than Derek. But he was probably only humoring them anyway, because his eyes were still fixed at Stiles.

“Bought it from… some shady person,” Scott treaded bravely further into the world of lies, standing taller now, though. “It’s… pot.” Deaton cocked an eyebrow. “Because… I heard mountain lions don’t like the smell?”

“That’s not pot,” Deaton disagreed.

“Not? Oh well… oh shit! You think they screwed me over?”

Stiles groaned into his hand.

“And there haven’t been any attacks for a month,” Deaton stated, lowering the bags to the counter.

“Well, you can never be prepared enough?”

“Wasn’t that around the time you dropped your mother’s chain in the woods? Scott told me all about your search. The only time he was late.”

 _Aaaa_ nd another one who knew. Something. Deaton had always been strange, vague, a little off, maybe kind of stoned. However the knowing look, the way he tried to communicate with him over the paper bag, scribbled runes all over them, yep. He knew. He definitely knew  _something_.

“Horrible night. Nothing I can forget easily,” he started, hands flailing. “I mean, I went out there looking for a corpse,” Deaton furrowed his brow in displeasure, “and all of the sudden swoossh, a fucking arrow, right through my shirt.” He pulled his shirt up, where he could remember the arrow had stuck. “And then there were those guys, with friggin’ crossbows.  _Crossbows!_  Who even uses that?” Except, of course hunters, because wood. Or maybe personal taste. Deaton raised his eyebrows. “And then I was running, like getting out of there and then there was this woman. With an  _axe_.” Right, it wasn’t  _exactly_  the truth, but he had to distract from himself. He hoped the mentioning of crossbows would put Deaton on the tracks of hunters -  _if_  Deaton knew of the existence of them.

“What?” Scott looked scandalized. “You never told me  _that!_ ”

“You wouldn’t have helped me find the pendant, if I had!”

“You should have anyway!” Scott’s eyes were round and big and he had betrayal written all over his face for something that happened a month ago. Granted, he didn’t know what Stiles had told Scott from that night, so he wasn’t the one to have betrayed Scott.

“Boys,” Deaton cut in, voice eerily calm. Stiles stilled immediately, expectant of what Deaton was about to do. But the man just waved at them in dismissal. “Just go. Get some sleep.”

“But Roxy,” Scott started.

Deaton stopped him. “Get some sleep.”

“Yeah, what happened to whatever important thing you had to attend to?” Stiles asked in forced mild curiosity, trying to keep the suspicion out of his voice.

The vet looked at him with an unreadable expression. “I was called back here by a furious parent.”

If possible, Scott looked even guiltier, hanging his head like a kicked puppy, but the hunter wouldn’t wait for a third order. So he just pulled his friend along and disposed him on the passenger seat. For a moment Scott fidgeted in his seat, before he turned around.

“Stiles?” he asked hopefully.

“What? No, that was me. Me playing Stiles,” he replied with an easy shrug. Scott’s face fell, so he turned his eyes away. “Mind if we take a detour?” he asked instead, while starting the engine. Scott just shook his head. When they stopped in the drive way of the Stilisinki house, Stiles looked back to his friend, who had kept silent the rest of the drive.

He chewed on his lips, and then looked at the digital clock in his car. He could still build the wards for a few hours, three tops but it was better than nothing. “I have to do some stuff.”

“Dangerous… stuff?”

“Magical stuff.”

“Magic…” Scott repeated toneless. “Werewolves. My best friend has a split personality. A dead guy came back to life. Magic. Okay. Why not.” He unbuckled his seat belt, his movements oddly stiff like he was bodily trying to keep himself from panicking.

A well known feeling.

He almost dragged Scott into the house, which so far was the safest place at the moment and when he let go of his friend’s collar, Scott took a deep breath.

“I want Stiles back.”

He stopped for a moment, before he continued on his way, throwing his jacket onto the couch as he proceeded to the hobby-room, everything still as he had left. “Not gonna happen anytime soon.”

Scott followed him hesitantly, eyes wide when he discovered the open hatch. “Wait here a sec,” he instructed and dropped into the former wine cellar, taking the herbs in the bucket and lifting them up. When he had everything he needed he climbed back out. Scott meanwhile continued to stand in the middle of the room, looking uncomfortable and lost and small.

“What do you mean?”

The hunter ran past him without replying, taking the buckets outside. Scott followed him to the porch, sitting down as he started to grind the herbs into dust.

“It means, as long as there are two werewolves, one psycho and several hunters out there, I won’t let him out. If I do, I can’t protect him.”

Scott was silent for a long moment and he took it as his cue to just continue his preparations. The brunette boy followed his movements with narrowed eyes, watching him making the ink for the rune under the moonlight. It was surprisingly tranquil, even as he could feel the energy tingling in his finger tips, his whole body.

“If you have questions, ask them. I’ll try to answer everything.”

Scott simply looked at him. “Tell me what’s going on.”

He took a deep breath. And told Scott everything.

Beginning from the training with his grandfather, soon joined by his aunt. He left out his hunts alone in the woods, left out how he, at the beginning, had drawn pleasure from killing the monsters responsible for his mother’s death. He told him about the wards in and around the house, the meaning of the things he had hidden in the McCall’s house trying to protect them.

“So those times you said you were going fishing, when your aunt and uncle came to visit, you were trained to kill. To kill  _people_.”

“Wrong. I  **hunt**   _monster_ ,” he corrected.

“Dude, they are partially human.”

He dropped the brush he used to mix the ingredients with water. “Partially the operating word. And if the animal part takes over, I have to kill them. I do it to protect you.”

“But Derek—”

He literally had to bite his tongue to avoid a growl. “You stay away from Derek Hale. He’s the most dangerous.”

“I don’t think so,” Scott argued.

“Scott. He acts the most human, but he can rip your throat out. With his bare hands.”

Scott just looked at him doubtful. “I’ve threatened him more than once and—”

“Right, Scott. You can’t threaten  _anyone_ ,” he argued back, rolling his eyes.

“Derek had more than one chance to hurt me. I pushed him around—”

“No, you didn’t,” he snorted in disbelief.

“Okay I didn’t because he’s freaking huge, but I tried to push him around, I boxed him against the shoulder, I snarled at him. Jesus, I stole  _all his clothes!_ ”

“What?”

“Monday? When I said I would buy milk? I saw him in the laundromat and I just snapped because you were miserable and I thought he, like, bad touched you or wanted to go faster than you so I confronted him but he just walked away. So I took his clothes.”

Stiles blinked at his friend.

“Scott,” he started slowly. “You realize that Derek is not my boyfriend? Or potential boyfriend? Or whatever?”

“But Derek said your relationship was  _complicated._ ”

“What? That  _fucker!”_

“And I mean, it makes sense. Maybe because you are all hot and cold on him? Like Stiles is throwing himself at Derek and you’re disgusted.”

“Scott, no.”

“You said you don’t know what he’s up to when you’re not there, right? Just because _you’_ re not in a relationship, doesn’t mean Stiles isn’t.”

“Oh God. Pictures. In my head.”

“Whatever, the point is,” Scott continued, ignoring him, “Derek  _never hurt_  me. Never pushed me. Never even touched me. Not even when I pretty much insinuated that he was a pimp. Or a gangster. Or a drug dealer.”

“I don’t even want to know,” he said toneless. And then felt offended because Derek never had a problem pushing  _him_  around or bashing his head against hard surfaces. And Scott seemed to have a lot of contact with Derek. And he hadn’t noticed. Shit, even  _Melissa_  had contact with Derek.

“And  _today_.”

“Yes.  _Today!”_  he accused with a growl. “How the hell did you end up at the house?”

Scott fidgeted under his intense glare like a six year old when his mother found out he had stolen all the cookies from the jar. “Derek called,” he started, unconsciously rubbing his nape. “He said he needed my help and I thought something happened to you… I mean to Stiles. I mean, both of you?”

He rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t matter.”

“I jumped in his car, and he refused to explain, but you know Derek, right? Words are not his biggest allies. When I probed he told me that he just wanted to talk to me. Because you had problems. I was really angry at him, because I left Allison alone with the pregnant dog, you know?”

“Right.”

“But I was willing to talk. I mean, we were already on our way, anyway.” Scott shrugged. The hunter wanted to slap the other boy in the face. “But I said I wanted to talk to  _both_  of you. I was so done with you sneaking around, not telling us anything. I was grateful Derek approached me.” Scott meaningfully glaring at him. “He said you were probably sneaking around the old Hale property. That you had some sick fascination with it.”

“And you  _believed_  him?”

Scott gave him a pointed look.

He made an elaborate gesture for him to continue.

“During the car ride, even when we arrived at the house and you were no where in sight and I got pretty  _frustrated_ , he was completely civil.” Stiles felt his eyebrows twitch. “He’s not evil. Or a monster. Or an animal—”

“Scott, he practically abducted you.”

“I went with him. Willingly.”

“Under false pretenses!”

“He was  _nice_.”

“Jesus fuck,  _Scott!_ ,” the brunette boy finally snapped, “I’m happy he was the perfect gentleman  _to you_. But you have no idea what he did to Stiles. To me.” He jumped up, walking up and down infront of his friend, trying to release the burn of angry energy. “The first time we met? He repeatedly banged my head against a wall, okay? After that on other surfaces! He slapped me. Several times. He fucking punctured my  _nape_  with  _his claws_ ,” he roared, pulling his collar down to show the holes and Scott sucked a breath in. “He could have killed me that night. Scott, if they didn’t need me he  _would_  have killed me. So fucking trust me on this. You haven’t seen what I have. When a werewolf turns feral, and there can be many reasons for it, they are a danger. They don’t kill, they  _slaughter_. Just because Derek didn’t throw you around or force you to do anything, doesn’t mean he’s not the bad guy.”

Scott frowned and the hunter relaxed his tense limbs, shoulders heaving with labored breath before he sunk down on the steps again.

“Okay, let me just… collect my thoughts,” Scott finally offered.

“Be my guest,” he replied charitably but  _pissed_ , returning to his work. The runes he put up weren’t as detailed as his mother’s, they were almost crude in comparison, simple but hopefully effective. Stiles’ mother probably used to add as many factors in as possible to reduce the amount of symbols she would have to paint but he suspected it could lead to mistakes, a double meaning or a conflict.

He was keeping them basic, easy and simple.

When Scott gave him the okay, he continued.

Told him about the Hale fire, then Derek and Laura and Peter, who had found a way back into life and it should be bizarre and crazy but Scott just listened and it felt so unbelievable good to just let it  _out_. To just finally be able to  _tell_  someone and it felt like a weight was lifted off his shoulders so he continued and told him about that nurse that had hunted him in the woods, who was most likely Peter’s accomplice and helped him.

Scott nodded, sometimes told him to stop, because he needed time to just… adjust his views but he urged him on anyway just a second later. At one point he had finished the door frame and continued to work on the windows, while Scott settled on one of the chairs.

When the clock hit five and the sun started to rise he dropped the brush, his shoulders aching from the unknown labor. They had ended up in Stiles’ room, Scott had fallen asleep in his bed after he had finished his story and had crawled into his own shell to process.

They had school, he knew and he wanted to just take a break, just drop dead and sleep the stress away. It was good however, that it was finally out, that Scott could help Stiles when he woke up after a week, after he deemed it safe enough.

Peter was resurrected but he hadn’t tried to kill Derek or attack him which meant he was either too weak or still not a werewolf, maybe it took time to adjust the body after a resurrection and it should probably worry him that he contemplated possible strains on resurrected bodies.

He wasn’t even sure that was a possibility.

Derek had probably felt as strained as he had. He could hardly move a muscle and it took him all his effort to at least appear unfazed by whatever that ritual or rune had done to him. He had seen the rune before, could vaguely remember it as a form of channeling catalyst.

Peter’s idea no doubt. He doubted it had been remarkably important for the ritual.

So Peter was a problem.

Derek probably not so much anymore. Derek had shown some kind of involuntary intention to keep him safe by stepping between them and Peter. And now that the werewolf knew that he had done nothing wrong back when he had killed Peter. There might be some lingering hate for getting played for a fool but he didn’t strike him as the kind to make war because of that.

Derek’s foremost problem was Peter now. And at some other point in time the hunters.

This?

This wasn’t in his hands anymore.

He could simply give it up, shove the responsibility to people with more experience, who hunted in a group of more than one.

He wouldn’t have to do  _anything_.

No, he would let them handle it, and when Kate arrived he would talk to her and maybe they would join forces and that was so, so much better. And whatever happened in the meantime was in Derek’s hands.

Yeah, so long as Stiles was safe, he didn’t care about them anymore.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the plot bunny running away? Catch it and bring it back to me! Or tell me where it hides! If you find plot holes, whack me over the head with them so I can change it to something making sense.
> 
> C&C appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> I've been told to let people know I'm on tumblr... so, uh, hey, I'm on [tumblr](http://researchrage.tumblr.com/). So if you like have questions or whatever, feel free to contact me?


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